Supervillainy with Tuera for Fun and Profit
by Sheason
Summary: A series of short vignettes centering around a most unusual warlock from the world of Azeroth, named Tuera Ashama. Unusual, because she simply refuses to stay put in the world of Warcraft.
1. Disclaimer

_**Disclaimer**_

* * *

 _What you are about to read is not, strictly speaking, a normal story. It does not technically have a beginning, middle, or end._

 _This is a collection of short vignettes I wrote, based (very loosely) on one of my characters in World of Warcraft: a warlock, called Tuera Ashama. They were originally posted on guild forums all throughout Legion, and – as I'm sure you'll soon realize – things got out of hand very quickly._

 _By the end, I stopped even trying to make it seem like it was actually taking place within the World of Warcraft, and I was just letting my imagination run wild, with truly absurd consequences._

 _Think of this as a bridge between "Another Night At The Inventory" and "Same War, Different Day."_

 _Somewhat._

 _A bit._

 _Maybe._

 _I'm honestly posting it here more for completeness' sake than because I think anyone will appreciate – or even really understand – what the fuck is going on. After all, these characters have stories I've written off-and-on since 2005, and most of what I wrote in the past was lost._

 _One of these days, I might rewrite it._

 _Maybe._


	2. Of Joint Bases and Soulstone Networks

_Roughly one month after the Legion began their last invasion of Azeroth..._

* * *

Phyacair checked his pocket watch again. Blast. Only five seconds had passed since the last time he checked. This was starting to vex him greatly.

The decrepit walking corpse grumbled to himself as he put away the watch and settled back into his seat overlooking the ruined town of Ambermill. He knew that there was an underground facility beneath the town hall, run by the Kirin Tor. He knew that they called it 'Joint Base Ambermill,' for some damn reason, although what that reason _was_ exactly, he couldn't say. He honestly didn't care. His only concern right now was for the Dark Mistress: Tuera Ashama. Where _is_ she?

The ruler of the former Ashen Citadel had entered the facility nearly three hours ago, and had yet to return. This was starting to worry Phyacair. Not because he was truly worried for her safety, obviously. That would be ridiculous. He knew that she could take care of herself; this fact had been proven many a time. Her immense power was one of the reasons she commanded such respect, and why Phyacair had chosen to devote his life to her, all those years ago. And it is also why he continued serving her in death.

But her plan had been to venture forth into the facility – using the access she obtained from the Director of Aberrant Magic, one Salazar Demes – and inspect the fourth level: the so-called Chamber of Death. She wanted to know if the research facility would be suitable for her purposes... and to see if there was enough space for The Device.

For such a seemingly simple objective – inspect the facility - three hours did seem to be pushing it, rather.

A twig snapped somewhere behind Phyacair. In a flash, he was on his feet, drawing his obsidian kris from its sheath and infusing his body with shadow magic. Ribbons of dark purple void energy scintillated off his ruined body, filling him with power before evaporating into the crisp night air.

But Tuera did not seem at all worried as she approached him with a smile.

"One of these days, I'll manage to sneak up on you," she said, smiling broad enough for her sharpened canines to glint in the moonlight. "But it is not today, I see."

"My lady!" Phyacair exclaimed, and the void energies rippling across his form disappeared with a pop. As the energies vanished, so too did his strength; with a gasp, he fell to one knee. "Was your... was your excursion... a success?" Phyacair grit his teeth while pain wracked his every nerve. Suddenly, a hand appeared in front of his face, and Phyacair accepted Tuera's aid. Renewed strength returned to his limbs as she helped him back on his feet.

"Walk with me," Tuera said, handing the undead man his cane. "We have much to discuss." She turned on her heel, disappearing back into the woods; Phyacair set off after her, as fast as his bones would allow.

* * *

The night air of Silverpine was unnaturally still. Even so many years after the invasion of the Scourge, hardly any animals remained... except the animals that walked on two legs. Forsaken assassins stalked the darkened corners, hunting for and hunted by worgen – both feral and Gilnean alike – who called the woods home. But these were of no concern to the two figures striding through the woods, casually as one would walk to the corner store.

"What news, my lady?" Phyacair asked. "After all... you were gone for quite some time. Was there trouble?"

"Strangely enough, no," Tuera chuckled softly, the expensive silken cloth of her robes flowing behind her like fire licking a tree. "Frankly, I'm _still_ amazed that none in the Kirin Tor have recognized me. After everything I've done, I thought for sure they would kill me on sight – but no! The Magus Senate let me in without issue, no questions asked. It's hilarious, and further goes to prove that they're all idiots!"

"It's possible that I may have had something to do with that, my lady," Phyacair paused, considering his next words carefully. "During your... extended absence –" And then Tuera cut him off.

"You mean while I was dead?" She said with a smirk. Phyacair coughed roughly, nodding his agreement.

"Quite. During that time, I did everything I could to prepare. Not just rebuilding The Device, of course, but... erasing all traces of your existence. Destroying public records, altering memories, eliminating witnesses whose minds were not pliable..." Phyacair coughed again. "You deserved a clean slate, Mistress."

"And that is why I am glad you're with me, Phy," Tuera said with another smile, as the red in her eyes started to burn brightly. "Your loyalty and ingenuity are truly without peer." Phyacair bowed his head slightly as she spoke.

"I live to serve, Mistress," he said softly. "But... what of the facility? Will it serve your purposes, my lady?" Tuera tapped her chin several times before finally giving up with a shrug.

"Maybe, but probably not," she said. "I mean, it's yet _another_ 'secret underground facility.' I swear, I have seen so many of those on this planet over the years... the inside of Azeroth must be practically honeycombed by now!"

"Yes... For some reason, people certainly love building 'down' to create dungeons, don't they?" Phyacair tried to chuckle, but just ended up coughing again. "After all, we contributed at least three of those kinds of bases ourselves, way back when, didn't we?" Tuera paused, swiveling in place to look at Phyacair.

"No... Not three. It was four. _Remember_?" Phyacair furrowed his brow, narrowed his pitch-black eye, and tilted his head as he tried to remember.

"Oh, yes..." he said, eventually.

"Regardless," Tuera said, resuming her stroll through the woods, with Phyacair just behind. "Venturing into the facility, this... Joint Base Ambermill, was illuminating. Certainly, there is interesting research being conducted in the bowels of the facility, and it _may_ prove useful to our endeavors in... _some_ regards."

"But not all?" Phyacair asked with a raised eyebrow, and Tuera shook her head.

"The transparency within the base itself is far too large a hurdle for us to work around consistently," Tuera said. "Salazar insisted to me that the lowest levels are 'his' domain, and that we could be free to work within, and not worry about the prying eyes of the Kirin Tor. But the _upper_ levels are run by the Magus Senate Ministry of War."

"That does not sound promising," Phyacair grunted out.

"Certainly not," she agreed with a nod. "But more than that, there isn't nearly enough space to build The Device properly. Enough for a single pod, like the one you built. But not large enough for a proper production line, there's no space for the cloning vats, the power requirements are completely sub-standard for our needs... really, the Soulstone Network is all that would fit, but I wouldn't trust it there with the Ministry of War in such close proximity."

"A long list of negatives," Phyacair nodded. "We'll have to find a more suitable location..."

"It does seem that way," Tuera responded, smiling again. "But thankfully, we have time on our side, for once." Phyacair furrowed his brow again.

"We do?" he asked. "My lady, if I may... are we not picking up where you left off, before you were unjustly murdered?" Tuera actually laughed out loud, the sound echoing through the tall, plagued trees of Silverpine.

"Oh, bloody hell, no!" she said, calming down to a soft chuckle. "Do you remember what it was like, back in the days of the Crimson Dagger cult? Back when I seriously thought I could bring this world to heel? It was so much _work_! All the time! And the only result for all of my efforts... was _yet more work_. It was a nightmare! Whatever rewards I gained were simply not worth the mountains of trouble it took to get to that point. Like fighting a never ending army of ogres, and the only rewards were three copper pieces." Tuera chuckled again. "I'm not going to work _that_ hard for so little reward **ever** again. **Ever**."

For a few seconds, the two of them continued walking through woods in silence, while Phyacair considered her words.

"So, what _are_ your plans, my lady?" he asked, obviously confused.

"Oh, it's quite simple, really," Tuera halted in place, looking back at her minion with a smile. "I'm going to do whatever I want... whenever I want... and however I want to do it."

"And... The Device?" Phyacair asked, still not quite understanding. "How will that feature into your plans?" Tuera just kept smiling.

"Oh, my dear Phyacair," Tuera reached out and caressed the top of his bald, scabby head, smiling all the while. "You know me better than anyone. You should know by now what _I_ find fun. Making enemies will be inevitable. So, constructing a device that will allow me to cheat death as much as I want? That's merely erring on the side of caution."

Phyacair nodded slowly, and the two of them continued their walk through the woods.

"Yes..." Tuera muttered with another giggle. "I can tell already, this is going to be _fun_!"


	3. Truth and Lies

_Several months later..._

* * *

Phyacair stood in one of the halls in the newly re-constructed Ashen Citadel – floating safely out of reach between dimensions in the depths of deep, **deep** space – and stared out of a nearby window. The cold and emotionless depths of the infinite stretched out forever beyond the glass. A strange sensation burbled within the desiccated walking corpse, rustling the cobwebs in his lungs.

He _liked_ this view.

The clever animals on Azeroth (and other worlds he had visited, besides) had all created the _illusions_ of a universe with intrinsic meaning and objective concepts of "right" and "wrong"... but it is nothing but nonsense. It is a fantasy, meant to shield fragile minds from the pain and horrors of The Truth.

The Truth, Phyacair mused to himself as he gazed into the abyss, is that there _is_ no objective meaning in _anything_. We are – all of us – nothing more than insignificant specks, clinging desperately to a mote of dust hanging in a sunbeam. Adrift in an emotionless void, there are no gods, there is no ultimate higher purpose in life, and nothing has any inherent value. The universe is vast, uncaring, unfeeling, and utterly indifferent to both our pain **and** our triumphs.

He _liked_ that idea.

This was one of many things that drew him to serve his Dark Mistress, so many years ago. _She_ gave his life (or, rather, _un_ life...) a purpose in this purposeless existence. _She_ created her own meaning because – like Phyacair – she was completely aware of The Truth. And unlike him, she had a will strong enough to create her **own**.

The sound of footsteps echoing through the granite halls behind him informed Phyacair that the Dark Mistress had returned.

"Welcome back, my lady," Phyacair said with a slight bow, turning on his heels away from the window. "I trust your meeting with the other members of the Black Harvest went well?" Tuera nodded as she made her way down the corridor, her elegant robes fluttering behind her like flames licking a burning tree.

"Well enough," Tuera nodded as she made her way down the corridor, her elegant robes fluttering behind her like flames licking a burning tree. She beckoned Phyacair to follow, and the two of them made their way down another hall. "Things will certainly be more interesting without Salazar..." Phyacair raised a scabby, skinless brow in confusion.

"Has something happened to Mr. Demes?" he asked. Technically, he should have called him "Lord" Demes, but Phyacair resolutely – and very deliberately – refused to acknowledge the honorific.

"Oh, that's right!" Tuera snapped her fingers, chuckling slightly. "You weren't there to see what happened during the expedition. The other day, Salazar led a team from the Magus Senate into Stormheim, to investigate reports of undead Vrykul pirates that had somehow contracted vampirism. Like the Darkfallen, only not elves."

Phyacair halted in his tracks, furrowing his brow and apparently trying to process this sudden absurdity. Tuera, surprisingly enough, waited patiently for his response.

"I suppose we've seen stranger things," he shrugged.

"We certainly have! Actually, that reminds me: we need to stop by The Menagerie later. I want to see how our latest 'guests' are doing." Phyacair nodded, and the two continued marching on.

"Your will be done, my lady."

"Anyway," Tuera continued as they started to walk again. "The source of the vampires was inside a cave, protected by enchanted mists. In the center of the cave was a basin, filled with a potion that – apparently – induced fear, delirium, extreme thirst, and the liquid could only be emptied by drinking it."

"You mean like the enchantment we encountered in –"

"Exactly like that, yes," Tuera cut him off with a nod. "And, just like that one, the enchanted liquid was protecting an amulet at the bottom of the basin. The Kirin Tor wanted it for study, but Salazar was rendered hysterical and unconscious by the potion..." Tuera chuckled to herself, grinning wickedly. "They were so fixated on getting him back to Dalaran for treatment, that none of them noticed when the amulet went missing."

"Surprising..." Phyacair grunted, scratching his chin.

"What, that I managed to snatch it without them noticing?" Tuera asked curiously. Phyacair shook his head.

"No, that you went for the subtle approach," he shot back with a cracked smile. "That's not usually your style." Tuera just started giggling furiously.

"And that's the joke!" she said through the laughter. "I wasn't _trying_ to be subtle, they just weren't paying attention!" Tuera shook her head and sighed; suddenly, she reached down into the cleavage of her low-cut robe. She pulled out the ruby amulet, holding it aloft by its gold chain and handing it to Phyacair. "Here. We'll need to take this to the lab later to figure out what it does."

"You don't know?" Phyacair took the amulet carefully, and Tuera shrugged.

"Not a clue!" she said. "I mean, I can make an educated _guess,_ but we won't know for certain until we get it analyzed properly. What I _do_ know is that many people – like the Kirin Tor and Gazoreth – will be looking for it."

"Gazoreth, my lady?" Phyacair asked.

"That's what Salazar is calling himself, now," Tuera snorted derisively. "He _claims_ that they're separate people and that this 'Gazoreth' is his dead brother who has been living in his head for several years, and..." Tuera shook her head and sighed. "I'm not really sure. I stopped paying attention at that point. Then again, I'm hardly in a position to comment on a convoluted history!"

"We have certainly dealt with more than our fair share of madness over the years, my lady," Phyacair nodded.

"Most of it self inflicted," Tuera laughed again. "Either way, Gaz is **definitely** going to be looking for it. The very first thing he said to me when we met before the meeting was asking for it back. I'm sure he'll figure out that I gave him a fake eventually, but that should buy us some time..."

"How long do you think, my lady?" Phyacair asked. Tuera hummed, thinking.

"Hmmm... Two weeks?"

* * *

Tuera and Phyacair made their way through the labyrinthine fortress, continuing to discuss the events that had transpired several hours earlier.

"... I swear, sometimes I think we shouldn't be 'The Council of the Black Harvest.' After tonight, we should just cut out the middle man and call it 'The Insufferable Pedant's Brigade.'" Tuera said, waving a hand over the activation rune on the wall. With a soft whoosh, the seemingly solid rock wall split apart and a door appeared, sliding into the floor.

"Oh dear," Phyacair sighed, knowing exactly where this was going. "It happened again, did it?"

"We spent a half an hour – at the very least! – discussing what exactly was meant by 'souls,' because no one could agree." Tuera sighed, as the two of them made their way into the Menagerie: at first glance, it was simply a hallway lined with large, seemingly glass holding cells. Each one of the pods contained some manner of exotic beast... among other things.

"And what brought on the discussion, if I may ask?"

At first, Tuera didn't answer. She had stopped at one of the pods, to examine the creature inside. The black-skinned monstrosity started hissing and snarling; it threw itself against the transparent walls, each impact resounding with a wet thud, but the 'glass' remained unmarred. The creature's barbed tail swished in the air above its elongated, ridged skull, and the secondary mouth on the end of its tongue slammed against the 'glass' – again, with no visible effect, except a large splotch of drool lining the inside of the pod.

At the base of the holding cell was a simple metal plaque with two words: _Internecivus Raptus_

"Gaz stole a Soul Engine from the Legion," Tuera said as moved on from the creature in the cell. It howled and screeched in frustration. "He needs thirty 'souls' to power it, and they need to be humanoid. He doesn't think that demon souls would work, and soul _shards_ are definitely out. And – apparently – they also need to be _fresh_."

"So those souls we have in storage would not work?" Phyacair asked curiously. Tuera shook her head, apparently undisturbed by the sounds all around her. The bellows of the first creature had set off the others, and now everything in the Menagerie's holding cells were screeching or howling or snarling loudly.

"He doesn't seem to think so. In the end, we finally got the answer out of him: when he said 'souls,' what he meant was 'human sacrifices.' And if he had just _said_ that in the first place..." Tuera sighed. "I suppose we disposed of that batarian just a bit too soon?" Phyacair nodded.

"That slaver ring he was part of would have proven itself useful for just such an occasion, yes." Phyacair agreed. But Tuera shrugged.

"Oh well. It's hardly that big of a loss. There's _always_ more where he came from..." She finally came to a stop in front of another pod, and looked inside at the bloody pile of limbs curiously. "So our latest addition hasn't revived itself yet, I see."

"Apparently not, my lady. And I don't think it _will_..." Phyacair nodded, looking into the pod himself. Had he not seen it up and about several days earlier, thrashing madly with the bone-scythes protruding from its back, he would've sworn it was simply a corpse mangled in some sort of industrial accident. "According to the log, it ceased functioning completely the _very instant_ we locked the Marker in stasis."

"Interesting..." Tuera tried to look inside; the bloody smears coating the inside of the pod had dried to a dark brown, obscuring the pile of dead, necrotic flesh. "I assumed that once we severed its connection to the Marker, it would revert to a feral state, and become like a wild animal..."

"Like the creature we plucked from that desert planet, Mar Sara?" Phyacair asked, looking over his shoulder at one of the nearby pods. The scaly, scabby, and vaguely felhound looking creature was pacing in the cell, fluttering its oversized insect wings and chittering loudly, like it was a dog-sized locust.

"Yes, exactly," Tuera nodded, continuing to stare at the mass of bloody limbs. "But if _this_ creature simply stopped _moving_... is it possible the Marker's electromagnetic field contains a control signal?"

"That is certainly a possibility, my lady," Phyacair nodded. "Although, that would still not explain the lack of metabolism or any identifiable organs..."

"We'll have to conduct more experiments, to find out for certain... Now, where was I?" The two of them moved further down the line, before Tuera snapped her fingers. "Oh, right! There was one other thing about the meeting I wanted to tell you. I finally got a chance to properly use that 'Zepharre' glamour I've been testing out!"

"Really?" Phyacair furrowed his brow. "I can't imagine you'd need to disguise yourself as a mage in front of a cabal of other warlocks."

"Oh, it's not what you think..." Tuera chuckled. "Gaz offhandedly mentioned that he had access to the library inside the Hall of the Guardian, like it was some great, difficult feat. And, of course, that void-brain Staverlyn tried to make a bet, saying he could get there first."

"I can't imagine that ended well..." Phyacair mused.

"Well, it was all just a bunch of talk and empty promises – right up until Karthys actually put forth a **goal**."

"Karthys, my lady?" Phyacair started racking his brain, trying to put a face to the name.

"You know Karthys: the lich I told you about who has still managed to keep hold of most of his skin."

"Oh yes..." Recognition washed over his undead features. "I've been meaning to talk to him, but I haven't gotten the chance. We have, after all, been so busy lately..."

"We certainly have..." Tuera smiled as they walked past another cell; the creature inside was an amorphous mass of flesh, eyes, teeth, broken bones and tentacles. It almost looked like several people had melted and fused together, turning into a screaming, writhing puddle of flesh, that resembled a liquid more than an animal.

"So, what was the goal Karthys put forth?" Phyacair asked.

"He wanted to see if it was possible to collect one of Kel'thuzad's notebooks. He knows that the Kirin Tor has them, but as he's never been able to set foot inside the Chamber of the Guardian, he's never been able to find any. The next thing I know, Staverlyn and Gazoreth are practically waving their alpha male cocks around, claiming they could get there before the other one..."

"And you slipped away unnoticed." Phyacair finished for her and Tuera nodded, smugly.

"I slipped away unnoticed," Tuera smiled, her sharp canine teeth glinting in the light. "Once I activated the glamour spell, I didn't even need to sneak in; I just walked right through the portal into the chamber. No one paid any attention to me as I found one of Kel'thuzad's old journals – from before he died and was turned into the lich at the Sunwell, unfortunately – and just lifted it from the library."

"Do you think the Kirin Tor will come after it once they notice it's missing, like the amulet you mentioned earlier?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Tuera shrugged. "They think that only mages can find their way into the chamber, as there are not proper physical entrances or exits. They feel secure and untouchable, and that's made them complacent. It's possible they may not even realize it's gone at all."

"So, where is the notebook?" Phyacair asked; Tuera looked at him curiously. "I assume you gave Karthys a forgery, and kept the original for yourself, yes?"

"Oh, no, I didn't even bother with that," she said casually. Phyacair stopped dead in his tracks, yet again. So Tuera explained: "I skimmed the contents on the way back to the meeting, and, frankly, I have no use for anything inside. It seemed to be nothing but basic level necromancy that Kel'thuzad wrote down when he was first experimenting with the dark arts. Any competent lich would _have_ to already know most of what's inside, by simple virtue of _being a lich_."

"So why steal it?" Phyacair asked, curiously.

"Just to prove a point," Tuera started cackling wickedly. "Honestly, the only reward I _really_ needed was to make those two look like fools!" Slowly, Phyacair started to understand, and the dead flesh around his face curled into a smile.

"You're just trying to stir the pot, aren't you?" he asked. Tuera nodded, licking her lips with a wicked smile.

"Absolutely! All it takes is just the tiniest nudge in _juuuuust_ the right places..." Tuera poked the air playfully. "... and then the **fun** begins!"

Tuera's laughter echoed through the Ashen Citadel.


	4. A Chat Over Coffee

_Yet more months later..._

* * *

It was a chilly Saturday morning in Dalaran. Then again, the altitude makes _every_ morning in Dalaran more than a little bit cold. Today, however, seemed especially frosty for one particular patron sitting in the Legerdemain Lounge.

Tuera Ashama, the _former_ mistress of the Ashen Citadel was sitting in one of the booths near the back. She sighed as her chin rested against her hand; as uncouth as it was, both her elbows were on the table. Her half-finished cup of coffee was sitting next to her, slowly wafting ribbons of steam into the air.

Normally when she was out and about, knowing that she'd be seen in public, she would make sure to be wearing an elegant outfit that would be tailored _precisely_ to compliment her figure as _exquisitely_ as possible. On any other day, everything about her appearance would be _absolutely_ on-point.

But not today. Today, her ragged outfit was frayed, burnt, and practically held together with twine and hopeful thoughts. What little jewelry she had left (which wasn't much) was scuffed and chipped. The three red ioun stones that normally hovered in a lazy orbit around her head were notable in their absence. She wasn't even wearing any makeup, which meant the _enormous_ bags under her eyes from lack of sleep could practically be seen from **space**.

"Would you care for a scone, my lady?" Phyacair appeared at her side, carrying a small tray of breakfast pastries in one shriveled, scabby hand, and a fresh pot of coffee in the other. Though he could never be accused of 'looking good,' considering his status as walking undead corpse, it was clear that Phyacair had partaken in whatever madness Tuera had been part of and was just as haggard and disheveled.

"Thanks..." She muttered with a nod, delicately plucking some food from the tray with a sigh. Phyacair set the tray and the coffee pot down, and sat across from her in the booth. For several moments, the two of them sat in silence. The general murmur of mages in the coffee shop talking to each other, drinking espresso, and playing rounds of Hearthstone provided a soothing backdrop to the two of them wearily munching on teacakes and pastry.

"That..." Tuera paused, taking a sip of coffee. "... could have gone better."

"Truly, your gift for understatement is unparalleled, Mistress," Phyacair nodded. Tuera tried shooting him a death-glare, but was too tired, so she just gave up. "Look on the bright side: we both escaped with our hides intact. Whatever was lost can be built again."

"That's not the point," Tuera sighed. "How many times have we done this exact same scenario?" Phyacair furrowed his scabby brow and narrowed his eyes.

"I don't think we've ever done this _exact_ scenario, Mistress," he coughed awkwardly. "After all, we _did_ spend several weeks stranded on Mar Sara this time. And that was after our escape ship catapulted us from the exploding Ashen Citadel and into the Eye of Terror." Tuera shook her head and took another sip of coffee.

"That's not what I meant, Phy, and you know it. I'm talking about making a fortress to act as my base of operations and research facility, and then some hitherto unforeseen disaster happens that makes it practically _implode_."

" **Ah** ," Phyacair nodded. "Well, in that case, at least five by my count."

"What truly vexes me is that I **honestly** don't know what else we could have done, this time!" Tuera rubbed her temple with one hand and broke a piece off her scone with the other. "I mean... we built the fortress in an artificially constructed pocket dimension. We then hid that pocket dimension in the space _between_ dimensions. **And then** we made sure that it was constantly shifting along the space-time axis, to keep the fortress permanently out of sync with the objective present."

"You never did explain how you convinced the Daleks to give up that technology," Phyacair mused aloud. Tuera shrugged.

"Do you really think they _gave_ it to me? I stole it while they were busy with their pissing contest against the Time Lords and too distracted to notice."

"I want to say I'm surprised, but I'm really not," Phyacair chuckled. "Well done, Mistress."

"The point is: when I redesigned the Ashen Citadel this time, I did everything I could to make it completely impenetrable from any outside attack..." Tuera sighed. "...and the problem came from _within_."

"How _did_ the xenomorph get out of its holding cell?" Phyacair calmly poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. "Did we ever figure that out?"

" **No** ," Tuera grumbled, rubbing her eyes. "We were so busy trying to escape that mess, I couldn't recover any footage from the security system. So I have no idea what went wrong in the first place!"

"Perhaps the problem was trying to contain a xenomorph at all?" Phyacair asked, grabbing one of the large bear claws on his side of the plate. "Now that I think about it, Mistress, I cannot recall a single instance where one of those beasts was successfully held indefinitely."

"The Yautja never seem to have any problems," Tuera muttered. "But I think that's because they expect – and _encourage_ – escape attempts. They've got hunting those chitinous bastards down to a **science**."

"If nothing else, I know exactly when things got so out of hand that we passed the point of no return," Phyacair took a bite out of the bear claw. "When the shoggoth broke open the casing around the Marker we had in storage, and all the necromorphs woke up at once."

"No arguments here..." Tuera chuckled. "I suppose it's a good thing we set the self destruct before we left. Otherwise the Ashen Citadel would probably be well on its way to turning into a Brother Moon by now..."

"Undoubtedly, Mistress," Phyacair nodded. "And even if we hadn't, it would still be stuck between dimensions. We had enough trouble figuring our own way out."

"That's true..." Tuera nodded. The two of them sighed almost in unison, and both of them finished off their coffee. "So," Tuera sighed, reaching for the coffee pot. "What do we do now?"

"Well, as I said before... everything lost can be rebuilt," Phyacair said. Tuera handed him the coffee pot, and he nodded. "Thank you, Mistress."

"I'm just wondering if there's a point," Tuera took another sip of coffee. "Every time I've tried to create a base of operations, it's been invaded, or blown up, or the volcano erupted... I wasn't even doing the supervillain 'trying to take over the world' thing this time! That's what _really_ annoys me about all this!"

"Well, if you _are_ going to set forward without a fortress, then might I suggest more caution and prudence in future?" Phyacair coughed again. "Without a secure facility to house the cloning vats and soulstone network, you will not be able to return if slain."

"I **know**..." Tuera grumbled. "This is such a disaster, isn't it?" She sighed, burying her face in her hands.

"Perhaps we could petition the Council of the Black Harvest for assistance?" Phyacair offered. Immediately, Tuera looked up, her eyes snapped open, and her expression fell like it was attached to an anvil.

"Oh, damn! I completely forgot about them!" She paused. "How long have we been **gone**?"

"I cannot say with certainty, Mistress," Phyacair sighed, taking another bite of bear claw. "Thanks to our being tossed about in time and space for so long, I haven't been able to determine our relative Time in relation to the present." He paused, scratching his chin. "However, I do believe that today is Saturday."

"Which means there's a 50/50 chance of a meeting tomorrow," Tuera sighed, rubbing her eyes again and shouting with exasperation into her palms. "I hope we haven't been gone _too_ long. Otherwise, this is going to be **very** difficult to explain."

"Undoubtedly, Mistress," Phyacair calmly took another sip of coffee. Tuera shook her head.

"I don't suppose this place has anything stronger than coffee?" Tuera asked, clutching the side of her head.

"I do not believe so," Phyacair said, setting down his cup and reaching into his jacket pocket. "But thankfully, I always come prepared." He produced a flask, wrapped in black leather and decorated with a metal skull and crossbones. He handed it to Tuera, who took it gladly.

"Thanks," she chuckled, unscrewing the top. Phyacair nodded.

"I live to serve," he said, pausing to think about that. "So to speak."


	5. Second Chances, Second Opinions

_A few days later..._

* * *

Green.

The goblins loved this particular shade of green. Phyacair, on the other hand, utterly _despised_ it. It wasn't the soothing shade found in the Undercity's slime canals; it wasn't the tantalizing allure of fel-fire and all the power it offered; it wasn't even the familiar shade of the Re-Agent, bringing promises of resurrection.

No, this particular shade of green was wholly artificial. The color of _plastic_. And it was absolutely _everywhere_ here in Gallywix's Pleasure Palace _._ Why on Azeroth would someone like Karthys be in a place like _this_? Phyacair did not know.

All he knew is that Tuera's Black Harvest communicator indicated to her that Karthys, a rather well-preserved lich and Hand of the Council, was here, somewhere. Tuera had instructed Phyacair to find Karthys, because she needed advice; the kind of advice that a lowly servant like he could not give.

There was a word for this. What this... _gathering_ was, certainly. It was... it was a _party_ , wasn't it?

"Ah-hem," Phyacair coughed, approaching the cluster of people on the edge of the party. Grand Afflicitonist Karthys Sorrowsong turned, eyeing Phyacair with suspicion.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his voice echoing subtly. Phyacair bowed his head.

"Pardon me for the interruption," he said with all due deference. "I represent my lady, Tuera Ashama. With your indulgence, she requests an audience at your earliest convenience..."

* * *

 _Later that same day, in The Dreadscar..._

* * *

Tuera stood on the rocky edge, gazing into the abyss beyond the boundaries of the asteroid drifting in the Twisting Nether: The Dreadscar. She did **not** like this view. It reminded her too much of what she had so recently lost... and more than that, it was incredibly dangerous. One wrong step, one shift in the rocks, one errant twitch of the nether magic keeping everything stable, and everything would be cast into nothingness forever.

She understood _why_ the warlocks of Azeroth kept The Dreadscar like this, of course. It was a metaphor made manifest: a constant reminder of the knife-edge all those who wielded fel-magics walked every day. It certainly made for powerful, striking imagery, but Tuera was not one for metaphor. She preferred **control**.

Perhaps that was the problem, she thought: she constantly sought to control what wouldn't be. But that was no excuse! Couldn't they have enclosed the habitable zones on this stupid rock in felsteel and transparent aluminum? They could've installed a few guardrails, _at least_!

She sighed, turning away from the sight, and was surprised to see Karthys already here. He approached still mounted on his dreadsteed.

"Ah!" Tuera did her best to maintain composure. She wasn't entirely certain that she succeeded. "There you are. I must say, I did not expect to see you so soon." Karthys shrugged, and refused to dismount from the Xorothian horse.

"Figured I'd come now, than when I'm busy later," he said, his voice echoing again.

"Fair enough..." Tuera agreed.

"How can I help you?"

"Well..." Tuera paused; she was hoping to have more time to prepare. Usually when someone agrees to come 'at their earliest convenience,' it'll be several days before they bother to get back to you. "I don't know how much Phy told you, but... well. My citadel was destroyed. Entirely. And... I..." She sighed. "I think I just need a second opinion." The expression on Karthys' face did not change.

"How, why, and by whom?" he asked curtly.

Dealing with Karthys was, itself, a double-edged sword, just like the position of The Dreadscar. She appreciated his bluntness, and his willingness to get straight to the point. That's why she came to him in the first place. But should she tell him the _entire_ truth of what happened? Should she tell him that it was her own carelessness that caused her to set the self destruct? Would he understand? No... He was a _Council Hand_. He would see it as a sign of _weakness_. She already had suspicions that Gazoreth was making plans to ruin her, and considering her long absence, this would almost certainly be just the push needed for them to cast her out, depriving her of all their resources. No, she would not escalate the situation any further than absolutely necessary.

"That's not the issue. I'll just get straight to my question. The Black Harvest: what _is_ our ultimate goal, really?"

"To embetter our kind," he said, in a manner that seemed remarkably well rehearsed. "To show that we are **not** to be treated like the Warlocks of old; a bad reputation caused by the Shadow Council of the past, and the new one that the alternate Gul'dan brought with him."

Tuera narrowed her eyes at Karthys, unimpressed.

"That is a very diplomatic answer," she said. "But I did not come to you for diplomacy."

A faint twitch appeared at the edge of Karthys' mouth.

"And what _did_ you come to me for?" he asked, his voice echoing deeply again.

"I have been gone for quite a while, I know," Tuera said, failing to hold back a chuckle. "But, if memory serves, then you are one of the few on the Council with an actual _brain_. And I don't mean one in a specimen jar, either."

That was definitely a smile on Karthys' face, now. Well... a _smirk_ , if nothing else.

"Yes, this is true. Although things have changed. Fastril is gone... Xul'ili has taken his place."

"Exactly," Tuera nodded. "And I wanted a straight, honest, no-bullshit answer. What is the ultimate goal of the Black Harvest? What are we working toward?" I need to know if a goal will _help_ , she didn't say aloud. The last five times she'd tried to build a citadel, she had created it with a specific goal in mind. And five times, they have fallen to ruin through one calamity or another...

"Preservation," Karthys replied. "Ensuring that our kind does not get wiped out by whatever backlash the Legion's presence may invoke. We seek power and knowledge to ensure a place in this world that will never be erased." Karthys looked down, directly at Tuera, from his spot atop his fel-infused horse. "That is the end goal of the Black Harvest." Tuera looked back with a furrowed brow, unconvinced.

"But isn't that too..." She gestured with her hands, searching for the words. "...too _nebulous_ to be a proper goal? It seems more like a mission statement." Tuera paused. "Or perhaps I'm looking at it wrong?

"A proper 'goal' may arise should a **need** arise." Karthys' said with surprising force. "For now... making sure we will always be here is goal enough." For a few seconds, Tuera didn't say anything. And then, she sighed.

"I guess I was just hoping for a little more... structure. Something solid. I've done this same thing so many times, over and over again, I'm starting to question my own motives..." Tuera shook her head. "But you see? This is how out of it I am! A few weeks ago, I wouldn't be questioning any of this..." She paused again. "Or... is it months? I honestly don't know. Time travel was involved."

"You've been gone about seven weeks," Karthys replied simply.

"Seven..." Tuera quickly did the math in her head. "Feels like less."

"What, exactly, do you need?" Karthys asked, snapping Tuera out of it again.

"I think I just need something to do," she replied. "You know... a goal. Something to help keep me focused while I get back on my feet..."

"Come to the next meeting," he said, his voice echoing once again. "There are new members that might need guidance. Take on an apprentice, if you need something to keep you focused."

"An apprentice..." Tuera mused, tapping her chin. "I suppose that could work." She laughed. "Y'know, I was almost hoping you might have more books for me to steal."

"At the moment?" Karthys shook his head. "I can't think of any." He paused. "But didn't you get a warrant out for your arrest from the last one?" Tuera looked at him oddly, before putting the pieces together.

"The _book_? No, no, you're thinking of the amulet that split Salazar and Gazoreth. The Magus Senate was rather miffed that I copied it without letting them know." She smiled, laughing at the memory.

"Oh. Right."

"Even though most of my liquid assets have gone poof, I still have the ability to generate glamours," Tuera continued. "My ability is greatly reduced, mind, since most of the spell foci were on the citadel when it exploded... but I'm not completely powerless." Tuera smirked again. "As far as I know, 'Zepharre Villalobos' is still free to come and go into the Chamber of the Guardian as she pleases..."

"Indeed..." Karthys produced a small pocketwatch, and tugged on the reins to urge his dreadsteed away. "I have to go back soon. My non-appearance will soon be noticed. But if I think of a task, I shall let you know."

"Thank you," Tuera bowed slightly, never looking away. "I am sorry for dragging you away from your party. Do enjoy yourself on my behalf." Karthys nodded, and the dreadsteed began to trot back to the portal.

"Have a good night, Tuera."

"Insomuch as it's possible, at least..." Tuera whispered, as soon as he was out of earshot.

* * *

 _The following Sunday, shortly after the Black Harvest Council meeting..._

* * *

The safehouse was still filthy. But then again, this was to be expected: Phyacair had set up this safehouse underneath the borders of Westfall and Duskwood many years ago, and had not used it since the Catacylsm. Frankly, he was surprised that it had remained undisturbed for so long.

It was all either he or Tuera had left.

An electric crackle and a pop of displaced air informed Phyacair that The Dark Mistress had returned.

"Greetings, my lady," Phyacair bowed as Tuera entered from the other room. "How was the meeting?"

"Fairly entertaining," she said. "Do you remember Keeland?" Phyacair furrowed his scabby brow, until he remembered:

"Oh yes. The one we had pegged for a Legion spy?" The two of them had been keeping a close ear to the Black Harvest communicator since their return, to try and figure out details of what had been happening in their absence.

"He was exposed in front of everyone. I was utterly _certain_ that we would have an execution. Karthys even had his head-chopping scythe out, and everything! But no. They just exorcised the demon and imprisoned it for questioning." Tuera chuckled. "Turns out, he was being controlled by a succubus."

"Really?" Phyacair chuckled. "I thought for sure it was going to be a dreadlord."

"My money was on a felguard, personally," Tuera shrugged with a laugh. "Guess we both lost that bet."

"In that case, Mistress, I shall keep my twenty quid," Phyacair smirked, causing Tuera to laugh again. "And what of your quest for an apprentice? Did that bear fruit?"

"Not quite," Tuera sighed, running a hand along one of the half-empty bookshelves, and pulling away fingers covered in dust. "There is one who shows promise, but..."

"Oh?"

"A girl, by the name of Hercantes..." Tuera said. Phyacair looked confused; not because he _didn't_ recognize the name, but because he **did**. "She's a silly little waif, who insists that she be called a 'grey witch,' whatever that might be."

"Why?" Phyacair asked. "If the communicator logs are correct, then she is more interested in satisfying her _sweet tooth_ than anything else..."

"This is true," Tuera nodded. "For the moment, at least. But I can sense enormous potential within her. She _could_ possess great power – power that could be useful to **me**. There is just has one tiny thing holding her back..." Phyacair raised an eyebrow.

"Which is?"

Tuera turned to him and smiled wickedly.

"A _conscience_. I think that with the right push, the two of us can strip her of that."

"Well then," Phyacair grinned, exposing a mouth full of a rotten, yellow teeth. "Shall we go to work?"


	6. Mana Wrench in the Works

_A week later..._

* * *

It was raining at the Temple of a Thousand Lights. Then again, it was _always_ raining in this part of southern Azsuna. Tuera suspected that the constant stormy weather had something to do with the Naga stronghold just off the southern coast... but that wasn't really her concern at the moment.

No, she was here in these ancient Nightborne ruins because she needed the money.

When she was forced to destroy the Ashen Citadel, most of her liquid assets and spell foci were rendered to ash and superheated slag. There were certainly ways to make up the money fast and "acquire" more spell components even faster if she wanted to go the _flashy_ illegal route. But that might not be the best idea at the moment, considering so many warrants out for her arrest. The best plan right now was some subtle, only _quasi_ -legal work, and that meant a bit of freelancing for the League of Explorers... and maybe the Reliquary too, if she could find the time. They did tend to pay better, after all.

Treasure hunting (or 'archaeology' for those who wanted to mince words) was one of those activities she really enjoyed, because she was surprisingly _good_ at it. It gave her a chance to get out in the world and really get her hands dirty (in a manner of speaking), which was _always_ fun. But her favorite part of being an 'expert obtainer of rare antiquities' always came once she found something valuable and it came time to sell.

You see, there are three types of deals in that business: white, meaning legal; black, meaning illegal; and her personal favorite color... _grey_. Sometimes she was able to make the deals so convoluted and complex, that even _she_ wasn't sure if it was on the level!

But that was all to come, Tuera mused to herself as she made her way up the ancient cobbled stone path, overgrown with wild grasses and Aethril flowers. The rain didn't bother her, because her purple adventuring outfit – complete with wide brimmed hat – had been magically enchanted to resist stains and repel nearly all liquids. And she was quite certain that any other relic hunters in the area weren't going to bother her, simply because of the _bodyguard_ by her side.

Arcathion: a massive shadowy creature born of the Void and unflinchingly loyal to Tuera. His massive bulk, inky black like the depths of deep space, radiated an intense cold, freezing both the air and the ground at his passing; the rain turned to ice crystals before smashing into the ancient stone path, and the flora in his way began to wither and die. Heavy armor, made from an alien metal and scarred from centuries of combat, was chained to the outside of his shifting amorphous mass. Two glowing eyes, shining like a pair of distant stars in the midnight sky, scanned the area for any threats that might seek to harm the Dark Mistress.

"Hmm..." Tuera and Arcathion came to a stop at the summit of the ancient Nightborne temple, scanning the overgrown ruins. She snapped her fingers, there was a pop of displaced air, a belch of sparks, and one of her (many) research notebooks fell gracefully into her open palm. She flipped it open and quickly skimmed the notes she'd made earlier. "Yes. Yes, I think... Yes. This is the place. We are going to find something valuable here!"

Before she got a chance to summon the rest of her equipment, an enormous hand made of void-stuff reached out, practically forcing Tuera down to the ground, and sending a deathly-cold chill up her spine.

" _ **DOWN...**_ " Arcathion growled, his deep, booming voice echoing briefly. Seconds later, dozens of balls of superheated pink plasma screamed through the air, displacing almost all of the rain and turning most of it to steam. Tuera took cover behind the massive Void Lord who remained resolutely fixed in place, absorbing several of the plasma bolts into his shadowy form. This gave her all the time she needed to prepare several spells, and she emerged from behind her mobile cover with her hands wreathed in green fel-fire. However, she paused when she realized where the plasma was coming from:

 _Ethereals_. There were at least a dozen of the mummified energy-beings surrounding her, all brandishing energy staffs. For that brief pause, she thought this might a good sign: if her competition for the relics in this site were _Ethereals_ , then whatever was buried here had to be good! But then she heard a voice that made her stop in her tracks.

"My, my, my..." the electronically distorted voice reverberated off every nearby surface seconds before the hologram fizzled into existence. "You certainly find a way to get into the most troublesome situations, don't you Tuera?"

For most people, it's very difficult to tell one Ethereal from another. They have no easily discernable physical features and the only usual giveaway is the specific style of wrapping they choose and what clothing they were wearing at the time. But even if the hooded ethereal, wrapped in gilded finery and expensive robes, _wasn't_ hiding behind a hologram, the insufferable smugness of his posture gave away his identity immediately. It was like he was always smirking, despite not actually possessing a mouth.

"Haramad..." Tuera growled at the Nexus-Prince of the Consortium. She kept her hands raised and at the ready, with green embers sizzling away from her skin. "I'm a bit busy at the moment. Do you think we can do this later?" Haramad merely laughed heartily, wagging a finger at her.

"Tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk!" Haramad clicked a tongue he didn't have (somehow) and shook his head. "I must say, you have been quite difficult to get a hold of these last few weeks. It's almost as if you didn't want to be found... or perhaps this is due to the recent destruction of your _Citadel_..."

Tuera stiffened up.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Tuera said quickly. Haramad laughed again, making it clear that he wasn't fooled for an instant.

"You have been a _very_ naughty girl, o _Dark Mistress_ ," he mocked, the tone of his voice laced with menace. "Abusing the technomancy in such a way? Venturing to unauthorized dimensions and off-limits universes? And then there was the small matter of bringing back _oh so many_ specimens! So many species and creatures foreign to _this_ universe! Do you know how many rules you broke with just the _Zergling_? And that was only the start!"

"Yes, because the Consortium would _never_ do something like that," Tuera shot back. "I've seen the tech your kind possess... and if the holding pens I saw when you sold me those technomancy schematics years ago were even a _fraction_ of the alien species you have stored up, then you don't have _any_ moral high ground here."

Tuera did not like dealing with Haramad at the best of times, even if it was sometimes necessary. Demons were easy to figure out, but Ethereals were much more... _inscrutable_. Most people thought of them as simple brutes, opportunistic scavengers, and amoral merchants... but she had seen what they were _really_ like. Their 'technomancy' gave them weapons and tech that eclipsed even that of the Burning Legion. As far as she could tell, they could conquer the multiverse several times over if they wanted. But they _didn't_. She could never figure out what they _wanted_.

"This isn't about moral anything, my dear," the hologram of Haramad smarmed, folding his hands behind his back. "You broke the rules, and used our technology in a way you shouldn't have. And I just couldn't allow that to stand. You had to be taught a _lesson_..."

A puzzle piece snapped into place.

" **You** were the one who let the xenomorph out of its cage!" Tuera shouted, green embers flaring from her hands. Haramad shrugged, laughing again.

"Oh, no! Not at all! Not me _personally_. I have people for these sorts of things, you know..." he laughed again. "I will admit, shifting the pocket-dimension along the time-axis was clever. But you didn't _really_ think the _**Daleks**_ were the only ones who could phase through time and space, _did you_?"

Tuera's face was practically carved from granite on the outside, but the inside of her head was screaming. There was a reason she'd stolen that tech from the Daleks in the first place: she thought no one would find a way around it! If the Ethereals – or Haramad, if nothing else – truly possessed time manipulation on that scale and with that precision, then...

"So, what happens now?" Tuera looked around at the Ethereal guards all around her – still with their energy weapons trained, but all of them refusing to fire. Presumably, they were just here to keep her from escaping while Haramad gloated. "Are you going to try and kill me? Because that's not going to end well. For **anyone**."

" _Kill you?_ " Haramad chuckled darkly. "My dear, I'm afraid you've got it all wrong. I have something much better in mind... and you won't die until I discover all the secrets in _your_ mind..."

"And what's to stop me from immolating myself?" Tuera asked, raising a hand to her face; the bright green flames sizzled perilously close to her hair and hat. "Or did you forget: coming back from the dead was one of the **first** tricks I mastered." Haramad did not seem impressed.

"Yes, yes, I know all about your little 'soulstone network' trick... but tell me this: what would happen if your essence was _trapped_ , unable to return to that network of yours? Do you think it would still work, or do you think you would just..." Haramad waggled his fingers. "... _fizzle out?_ "

He was bluffing, Tuera thought. He was good, but he wasn't _that_ good. He _had_ to be bluffing. Then again, _she_ was bluffing too: The Machine had been on the Ashen Citadel when it exploded, and she hadn't rebuilt one yet.

"From what I understand, weapons fashioned from the claws of a _faceless one_ should definitely entrap a soul, and keep it from escaping," he said. With a chorus of synchronized clicks, the ends of all the energy-weapon staves unfolded, revealing blades practically dripping with Void energies. "Come now. Did you think _Azeroth_ was the only planet populated by the Old Gods and their servants?"

Haramad turned away, and his hologram started to slowly fade. But before his ghostly image disappeared completely, he had one last thing to say to his men:

"Bring her to me. Subdue her by any means you see fit, just... make sure she's still _breathing_ , will you?"

The Ethereal guards began slowly advancing, and Tuera took a step back. Arcathion positioned himself between Tuera and the Ethereals like a wall.

" _ **GO...**_ " he growled loudly, just as a pair of Ethereals rushed him, trailing ghostly after-images behind them. The Void Lord grabbed one of the staves, ripping it from the hand of his attacker, and brought a massive fist down like a meteor; there was a flash of light and the Ethereal exploded, sending burnt wrappings flying in every direction. The Ethereal coming at him from the other direction suffered a similar fate, being first hit with a massive back-hand strike before being crushed completely underneath Arcathion's other hand. The energy staff clattered away uselessly.

That was when Tuera raised her outstretched hand to the sky, and crushed the conjured fel-stone in her hands. The storm clouds over their heads began to churn and boil with green flames and suddenly several portals appeared, ringed with crackling fel energies. Several huge green meteors streaked through the sky, and within seconds the space between Tuera and the pack of Ethereals attacking her was filled with at least four very angry looking infernals.

"Come on!" Tuera shouted at Arcathion above the shouting and screaming and plasma bolts screeching wildly off-course. She snapped her fingers with a crackle of arcane energy, slashing the air with her outstretched fingers as she did so, and a small hole in reality tore itself open behind the two of them. The Void Lord hesitated, and Tuera grabbed him by one of his thick claw-fingers, pulling him in along after her. "I said come on! It's time for us to go!"

Normally, Tuera wouldn't think twice about leaving Arcathion behind. That was his whole job, after all, and he had willingly sacrificed himself on her behalf countless times in the past. Tuera would just summon him again... but if those weapons truly _were_ crafted from faceless one parts, then it was possible – however unlikely – that Arcathion might be trapped between universes and Tuera would be unable to resummon him.

She had already lost far too many resources recently. Arcathion was one of the few loyal servants she still had left, and she wasn't going to so casually toss aside such a valuable tool for no reason at all.

"Into the portal, blueberry! Move!" she yelled again, giving him one last shove. She leapt in after him, and her hat flew off from the gust of wind displaced by the portal; it hung in the air just long enough for her to reach back, grab it, and pull it in after her.

Just as the last infernal crumbled into dust, the portal closed and disappeared with a pop.

* * *

 _Meanwhile, back at Tuera's Safehouse..._

* * *

" _I fear you are toying with me, good lady," he smiled, careful to hold his jaw in place. "Surely you must be Elonia's sister, not her mother."_

 _A faint blush flashed across Lady Marina's cheeks. "You flatter me, my lord." Her voice softened. "It has been centuries since anyone has mistaken us for siblings."_

" _Nonsense!" he insisted, taking her hand and guiding her toward the couch. He sat down between the two indigo-skinned elves. "Perhaps after we share a bit of wine, we'll find out what else you and your daughter have in common."_

" _Oh, Lord Gravesbane!" Marina swooned. She took Elonia's hand, sharing a furtive smile with her daughter. "Perhaps it's time we introduced you to the true secrets of the Shal'dorei..."_

Phyacair chuckled to himself as he read. This novel was filthy and absolutely dreadful, in every meaning of the word possible.

He _loved_ it.

His collection of steamy romance novels was something of a guilty pleasure. He would die of shame if Tuera ever found out – nevermind that he was already dead. Which is why he only ever read them when she wasn't –

There was a pop of displaced air and a crackle of electricity from the other room. He made the book vanish as quickly as he could, and straightened himself up as best he could. Before he knew what was happening, however, Tuera had grabbed hold of his shoulders, dragging him along the ground as she ran into the next room. He barely had time to look confused.

"Phyacair, this is a crisis!" she shouted. "A large crisis! In fact, if you've got a moment: this is a twelve-story crisis with a magnificent entrance hall, carpeting throughout, 24-hour porterage, and a large sign on the roof reading 'THIS IS A LARGE CRISIS!'"

"M-mistress?" Phyacair asked, more than a little bit ruffled. He had only ever seen Tuera like this _once_... With difficulty, he detached himself from her grip. "What's the matter?"

"We need to be gone **yesterday** ,that's the matter. Nexus-Prince Haramad is after me, and we need to lay low." Tuera said, starting to tear the safehouse apart. Phyacair merely raised an eyebrow.

"I thought we already _were_ laying low?"

"Well, we're gonna need to go even lower," she said, checking under a nearby desk and displacing a huge cloud of dust. "It's possible that he doesn't know about this place, but I don't want to take that chance. Where did we put the explosives?"

Phyacair sighed heavily. He knew that he would eventually have to say goodbye to this safehouse on day. A shame, really. He rather liked it.

"Under the stairs in the second sub-basement, my lady," he coughed, adjusting his collar and attempting to regain composure. "So, it is to be a scorched earth campaign, then?"

"I'm not going to leave anything for him to find or use. And I need to figure out a better solution than the soulstone network and The Machine for cheating death," Tuera said, standing up straight, and looking Phyacair square in the eye. "He has weapons – Old God weapons from faceless ones – that can kill me and _keep me from coming back_. This is not an ideal situation. Until I can figure out a good workaround, we're going to have to become _ghosts_ – so we don't become _corpses._ "

"I am already a corpse, Mistress," Phyacair said, almost without thinking. Tuera shot him a look practically laced with venom.

"Now is **NOT** the time, Phy. You **know** what I mean!" She sighed, running her hands along the top of her head and her fingers through her hair. Phyacair looked over to Arcathion – who he only just now realized was here – and raised another eyebrow. That was another anomaly. Normally she did not summon her demon minions in the safehouse. This situation was becoming more unusual by the second.

"I take it this means your plans concerning the Hercantes girl from the Black Harvest are now moot?" Now, it was Tuera's turn to do a double take.

"Do you really think I _care_ about that right now?" Tuera snapped, more than a little hysterical. " **NO!** Of course not! Making sure I don't _die_ **obviously** takes precedence over managing an apprentice or even trying to turn her to the dark side! Are you _nuts_?!"

"All other priorities rescinded, then," Phyacair nodded. "I understand, Mistress."

"We need a good place to hide out for a while, where not even Haramad and his Consortium goons can touch us."

"Where, then, can we go?" Phyacair asked; the Void Lord next to him growled something unintelligible, but it seemed to ask the same thing. "More importantly: where can we go where you can remain anonymous, and yet still build up enough capital for you to resume your work? After all, I needn't remind you: we're broke."

Tuera tapped her chin several times, deep in thought. The room was so silent, Phyacair could almost hear the gears turning inside Tuera's head. And then, a twinkle appeared in those blood-red eyes of hers.

 _Idea._

"Pack your things," she said as her lips spread in a wide, wicked smile. "Then help me plant the explosives. As soon as we destroy all trace of our presence here, we need to set sail for Kalimdor."

" _Kalimdor_?" Phyacair seemed completely taken aback. "You have a plan, then?"

"I think it's time we pay a visit to some old friends in Gadgetzan."


	7. Shells

_Somewhere on the Broken Shore..._

* * *

" **DIE, INSECT!** " The massive Fel Lord boomed, swinging the equally massive poleaxe. The blackened and dead ground practically exploded in a shower of blazing green fel fire and rubble, sending Tuera Ashama flying. " **I will cleave your soul ASUNDER!** "

She smashed back-first (and upside down) into one of the nearby fel-crystal stalagmites, and collapsed into a bloody heap. With difficulty, she pushed off the ground and got back on her feet, wiping the blood away from her mouth. She balled her hands into fists, which were instantly surrounded by a shroud of green flame.

"Was that your best shot, Xar'thok?" she said with a laugh. "I've met _gnomes_ who hit harder!" She didn't seem bothered that the Fel Lord was easily ten or fifteen feet taller than she was, and at least five times as broad. The Legion lieutenant charged at her with a roar, raising the poleaxe high above his head. The bolts of green energy streaked away from her hands and sizzled through the air; the energy exploded off the side of the demon's helmet, sending a shower of molten green plasma raining down.

Tuera managed one last blast of fel fire – which Xar'thok didn't even seem to notice – before her closed the distance and stomped on her with one of his enormous armored boots, pinning her to the ground.

"Augh...eh-heh..." She struggled for a few seconds, and spat blood off to the side. "You'll have to do better tha-"

She was abruptly cut off by Xar'thok swinging the poleaxe, and slicing her cleanly in half. Her lifeless torso bounced and rolled away like a ragdoll from her still pinned legs, trailing blood as it went along. The Fel Lord sneered and let out a single grim chuckle, satisfied with his work.

" **Pathetic worm...** " he muttered; his voice was still loud enough to shake the ground. " **Another soul to fuel the Legion...** "

"This is annoying," a familiar voice echoed through the canyon from somewhere behind the demon. "I actually liked that outfit, and you've gone and ruined it." Xar'thok furrowed his massive and scarred brow in confusion, turning to the sound with his poleaxe gripped tight.

" **... what.** " The demon said flatly. Tuera Ashama, no worse for wear, was standing on top of a ridge some distance away, with hands already wreathed in fel flame and ready to send them his way. He glanced down. Her severed legs were still pinned underneath his boot, and her lifeless torso was still lying some distance away in a pool of her own blood.

"Well?" Tuera started laughing again, as the ground around her feet caught fire and began to spread. "Are you going to stand around all day... or are we going to **fight**?"

* * *

 _The previous Monday, on a ship off the Tanaris coast..._

* * *

The small pitch-black orb in Phyacair's palm began to hum gently.

"Shackle the soul and forget the flesh..." a voice echoed from within the void. "Bind the Machine and butcher the rest..."

"Look," another tired voice spoke up, amid sounds of idle scratching. "I get aesthetics. I do. More than most. But don't you think that's a little excessive?" There was a slight pause, and then the first voice spoke up again.

"Hardly excessive."

Phyacair waved his free hand over the orb, and a rune suddenly appeared above it, followed by several lines of scrolling green text, seemingly made from glowing mist. The voices from the Black Harvest communicator continued speaking, each utterance producing a new line of text in midair. He waved his hand again, and the text began to scroll through the archive; Phyacair calmly produced a pencil from the inside of his waistcoat, licked the end, and began taking notes.

Even in their dire situation of being mostly broke and sort-of on the run, he was still diligently keeping a record of what everyone in the Harvest was saying for Tuera, just in case someone said anything of interest. And because Phyacair was so paranoid, he checked every few seconds to make sure that communicator was set to "mute."

"Phyacair!" Tuera banged on the doorframe, jolting him away from his work. "Eyes up, we're almost here." Without a word, he shut off the communicator, began packing everything up, and swiftly followed her above deck. It only took a few steps of trying to tiptoe around the packs of imps and the occasional felhound before he gave up, cast levitate on himself, and floated the rest of the way. By the time he reached her, she was already standing near the edge of the ship's prow, looking ahead.

The very first thing the two of them did (after blowing up the safehouse) was secure passage to Kalimdor... by slaughtering the crew of a Bloodsail pirate ship, and taking the vessel for themselves. At first, Phyacair was confused. Why not just teleport there? But he was confident that she had a plan, even if he couldn't understand. He was confident she _always_ had a plan.

Sure enough, as Tuera began summoning demons to act as the ships new crew, she explained: they _couldn't_ teleport there, because a portal spell large enough to bring through all her luggage and equipment would attract the wrong kind of attention. Even several smaller portals, going back and forth with multiple trips, would be too dangerous with Haramand undoubtedly on their tail. So, they had spent the last few days traversing the Great Sea on their stolen pirate ship, heading straight for Gadgetzan Port.

"You hear anything good on the comms?" Tuera asked, glancing at him over her shoulder.

"Just the usual chatter," Phyacair shrugged, amid the various creaks and pops of his old joints. "Most of it is noise, but I shall have a list of important details soon." Tuera nodded, continuing to gaze out at the horizon. "So, what's the plan?"

"A friend of mine has set up shop in Gadgetzan – a blood elf by the name of Solia," Tuera said simply. "She owes me a favor, and she'll know where we can find a safehouse. Besides... ever since that population boom a few years ago, Gadgetzan is big enough that we won't be noticed."

"Indeed," Phyacair nodded. He couldn't really comment, as he'd never actually been there. But the skyline – getting bigger by the second – was much more impressive than the half-dozen huts and an arena cage he'd _heard_ it was.

"Illyrogg!" Tuera turned, calling out to the Observer manning the wheel of the pirate ship. "How much longer?"

"AVAST!" the floating demon with half a dozen eyes called back, waving a cutlass with one of its tentacles. "Aye, it be smooth sailin' from here on! We'll drop anchor in ten minutes, or I'll start keel haulin' every one'a these scurvy dogs one by one till we do! Ya-har!" The demon adjusted the wheel again, and straightened the tricorn hat sitting on his head.

Both Tuera and Phyacair stared at the floating demon in confusion for several seconds.

"Do you think we should be worried about that?" Tuera asked in a hushed whisper. Phyacair shrugged.

"I should think not, Mistress. He's likely just having a little fun, getting into character. Nothing to worry about." Phyacair coughed. "Probably."

* * *

 _Later that same day..._

* * *

LEGION BE WARNED

That was the sign above the entrance to the city, and hanging off a demon they had mounted on the city walls like a trophy. Tuera was actually somewhat impressed: somehow, they had managed to chain up a _nathrezim_ – and keep it from disintegrating on death, no less – putting it on display for anyone who wanted to enter the city. It reminded her a little of Jagganoth, the Pit Lord and former master of the Dreadscar chained up by the Black Harvest.

Mayor Noggenfogger must have ordered that mocked up after the Legion sent several of their warships to try and bomb Gadgetzan several months ago, Tuera mused to herself. The two of them made their way into the city, Tuera walking at a calm, leisurely pace, while Phyacair floated along slightly behind her. Arcathion was also with them, keeping a watchful eye as rearguard.

This city was **not** at all what he was expecting, Phyacair thought to himself as they made their way deeper. This was not a dusty little Podunk town in the middle of nowhere; this was a sprawling metropolis, with buildings practically piled on top of each other, reaching to the sky. The brick-lined streets twisted and turned, got narrow before widening out and then getting narrow again... and the sounds of throbbing V8 hot rods and machine gun fire echoed from everywhere constantly.

And yet, despite the confusing, labyrinthine nature of the city, Tuera seemed to know exactly where she was going...

"Here we are," Tuera said, finally coming to a stop. Phyacair looked around and realized they were on one of the main thoroughfares through the city – Gadgetzan Way – but they had approached from the back streets, taking the most circuitous route possible. He looked at the sign in the window, glowing with a sort of bright pinkish-purple iridescence.

"Inkmaster Solia's Tattoos, no appointment necessary," Phy said aloud. "Are you sure this is the place?"

"Absolutely. Arcathion, watch the door," Tuera said, stepping inside; the bell above the door rang as she crossed the threshold. Within seconds, a blonde-haired elf woman wearing a red outfit stepped out from behind a curtain of beads.

"Welcome to my parlor! How can I he-" Solia stopped mid sentence when she looked up. " _Tuera_? Tuera Ashama, as I live and breathe! I heard you were dead!" Tuera shrugged, and Phyacair coughed in an attempt to disguise a smile.

"I get that a lot," she smiled.

"Let's see... the last time we saw each other was..." Solia trailed off, thinking.

"That nonsense on the Isle of Giants," Tuera completed her thought, and Solia snapped her fingers with a laugh.

"That's right. It's been far too long!" Solia looked up as she stepped behind her counter and narrowed her eyes. "Did you do something to your hair?"

"Oh! Yeah..." Tuera laughed, reaching up to scratch the back of her head, ruffling the loose hair falling over her shoulders. "Yeah, I lost the chopsticks, so I decided to let my hair down for a while." Solia just shook her head and laughed.

"I'll be damned. I thought for sure you'd take those ugly rune-spikes to your grave!" _I have, several times_ , Tuera thought to herself. Instead she shrugged again.

"I haven't gotten a chance to make new ones yet." Solia nodded. She leaned against the counter, and suddenly a mana wyrm floated through the curtain of beads. Tuera did a double take as she watched it coil around Solia's arms; she'd seen plenty of mana wyrms in the past, but never a _red_ one before...

"So, what brings you my way?" Solia asked, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. "Looking for work? After all, my tattoo parlor is always hiring. I know you have the summoning and binding experience..."

Tuera didn't say anything at first. The mana wyrm had drawn Tuera's gaze to Solia's arms, and she couldn't help but notice the ink. Spiraling and intertwined runic tattoos wound their way up both her arms, ever so subtly shifting position on her skin as they glowed with a strange red light. Her eyes shone with the same color – very far removed from the green glow Tuera remembered from the last time they met.

Solia was obviously and clearly bound to someone's service; Tuera had done that sort of binding enough herself to recognize the signs instantly. She wasn't mind controlled – probably – but she was definitely _controlled_ by _someone_. Tuera would have to look into this later, when there wasn't other business to hand.

"Perhaps later," she said quickly to deflect. "I just recently arrived in town, and I need to find a place to stay. Some place discrete. Secure. _Out of the way_." Tuera looked Solia square in the eyes. "Understand?"

"Absolutely," Solia smiled, drumming her fingers along the countertop as the red mana wyrm continued circling around her arms like a floating cat with no legs. "I think I know a few places around town that might suit. But what's in it for me?"

"Well, you _do_ owe me one. Several, in fact," Tuera smiled. Solia, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"You want to cash out those favors for something like _this_?" She seemed shocked.

"Not entirely. But I'm sure we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. We can discuss the details over dinner later. My treat."

* * *

 _The following Thursday..._

* * *

"Mistress?" Phyacair called as he entered the safehouse, carrying several bags in each hand. "Are you in? I have food."

"Downstairs!" Tuera's voice called out from somewhere in the safehouse. The door locked with an arcane click behind him, and he made his way to the stairs.

The safehouse was relatively small, and seemed even smaller due to the sheer amount of clutter. A ridiculous multitude of _things_ were everywhere, ranging from books on every piece of furniture, to ancient relics and arcane curios, to shelves upon shelves of alchemical ingredients, potions, scrolls, and spell reagents.

Downstairs, however, was a different story. Everything down here – from the chromed tools and equally chromed workbench to the large glass cylinder with a gestating body suspended in a soup of nutrients and liquid mana – was dedicated to the machine being built in the center of the room. Tuera was busy, wrenching away at the device, and covered in grease. She looked up as Phyacair descended the stairs and made his way to the small folding table and chairs they'd set up.

"Oh, finally!" Tuera got up put her wrench aside, grabbing a rag to try and wipe the grease and dirt off her hands. "I'm starving! What did you get?"

"Just some Pandaren take-out, I'm afraid," Phyacair set the bags on the table, and produced several white paper-board boxes, alongside a cluster of disposable wooden chopsticks. "I got it from the shop down the road, near Jade Square. I fear it's not authentic, as the establishment is run by two goblins and there was nary a Pandaren in sight." Tuera shrugged, grabbing a pair of chopsticks and one of the boxes.

"Right now, I'm hungry enough that I don't care." She picked up one of the boxes and examined it, chuckling slightly. "You know, it's funny. All that time I spent in Pandaria, and I never saw a _single one_ of these kinds of take-out boxes..." Despite that, she popped open the lid and started digging into the steaming hot chow mein.

"I don't think they use them," Phyacair nodded, taking a box of fried rice and some chopsticks. Tuera laughed.

"Any news?" she asked between bites.

"The Hand is calling an impromptu Black Harvest meeting in the Uldum ruins at the south of Tanaris." Phyacair said. "It doesn't _sound_ mandatory, but..."

"What about?" Tuera asked.

"They'll be meeting representatives from the Illidari, to secure a more stable alliance before the inevitable counter-invasion of the Broken Shore." Tuera furrowed her brow, hung her head, and sighed.

"Damn. Can't exactly miss something like _that_ , especially not with my horrid attendance as of late. Guess I'll have to wait till tomorrow to finish off the machine..."

"Indeed, Mistress," Phyacair nodded, eating a bit of fried rice. "So, if I may ask, how is this new machine going to work?" As he spoke, he pointed at the large metal machine with his chopsticks.

"Been doing a lot of thinking about this, actually," Tuera said. "With a bit of work, I think I can repurpose the soulstone network to transmit, rather than simply receive. And if I'm recalling the research I did during the Cataclysm correctly, then an Old God weapon fashioned to steal souls won't work on something that _doesn't have one_. Like, for instance, a robot, a golem, or a Titan construct." She had that smile on her face again, Phyacair noticed.

"And... pray tell, Mistress, how is that going to help?"

"I'm not going to wait to get killed before decanting a clone body as a replacement," Tuera explained. "Recent events have proved that's just _asking_ for trouble. I think I can repurpose the clones and turn them into body doubles, using the soulstone network to control them remotely. They'll be meat-puppets, effectively. I'll have to run some tests, but I'm fairly certain that if they get killed – or if someone tries to steal my soul – it wouldn't work, because the vat-grown doubles would, in essence, be empty _of_ essence."

Phyacair pondered this for a few seconds, before nodding with a snap of his fingers.

"You mean to turn yourself into a shell game, then."

Tuera raised an eyebrow and looked at him curiously.

"A... _what_?" she asked.

"A shell game, Mistress," Phyacair said calmly. "It's a classic con. You know, with three shells, a ball, and –" she waved a hand, cutting him off.

"Yes, I _know_ what a shell game is, Phy," Tuera said with exasperation. "I just don't understand the relevance to what we're talking about."

"How _do_ you think a shell game works, if I may ask?" he asked, after several seconds of hesitation. She shrugged, taking another bite of chow mein.

"Move the shells faster than the person can keep up, so they get confused and pick the wrong one?" she said. But Phyacair chuckled and shook his head.

"Not at all. A _true_ con man will never run a shell game if there is **any** possibility of him actually losing... because the con in a shell game isn't getting the mark to pick the _wrong_ shell. If you pick a shell _at all_ , then you're not paying attention to what the con man is actually doing."

Tuera raised an eyebrow, and Phyacair decided to demonstrate. He took a few of the spare empty take-out boxes and produced a small ping-pong ball, placing it under one of the boxes and shuffling them around.

"The ball isn't under the first shell, the second shell, or even under the _third_ shell..." He lifted the boxes, one by one, and there was nothing under any of them. Phyacair waved his scabby hands back and forth, and suddenly the ping-pong ball seemingly materialized out of thin air and rested in his palm. "The ball is in his hand the whole time." Realization flashed on Tuera's face and she started chuckling.

"Okay, yes. Then this is going to be _exactly_ like a shell game." She chuckled. "That was a neat trick. Where'd you learn that?" Phyacair shrugged.

"I dabbled a bit in sleight-of-hand, once upon a time. I daresay I was quite the con man in my youth." Tuera nodded approvingly.

"Once I make sure this system works, I highly doubt that the _real_ me will ever be seen in public again..." She took another bite of chow mein, and leaned back in her chair, looking at the machine. "Shell... I like that. I think I'll use it."

"Mistress?" Phyacair asked, reaching for more food.

"Well, these meat-puppets will be empty _shells_ anyway, so why not call them what they are?"

The two of them started laughing as they continued to eat their food.

* * *

 _Back at the Broken Shore..._

* * *

The Fel Lord Xar'thok was lying flat on his back, sprawled on the blackened and scarred ground. Boiling, viscous black blood was pouring from dozens of open wounds, and gushing in torrents out of his ruined, toothless mouth. Tuera Ashama – or, more accurately, one of her _Shells_ – was standing on top of Xar'thok's chest, looking down at him with an expression of insufferable smugness. She was conveniently ignoring the half-dozen other dead bodies (and body parts) scattered around the beaten demon.

" **You... have already... failed...** " he coughed out, amid torrents of blood. " **The Master... will mend my flesh... again... and again...** "

"Perhaps," Tuera said, opening her palm and aiming it at his face. The demon's immense bulk shuddered and convulsed under her feet. Shadowflame manifested around her fingers, curling into green smoke, and she snapped her fingers closed into a fist; there was a sickening crunch, and Xar'thok's head caved in, sending shards of blood, bone, and brain flying everywhere.

"But not _today_ ," she smiled wickedly, stepping off the dead demon. She tapped one of her earrings, and the green crystal started to hum and glow. "Phyacair? Do you read me?"

"Certainly, Mistress," Phyacair's voice echoed within Tuera's skull. "How is the field test going?"

"I think well," she said, stepping over one of her previous doubles. "There are... a _few_ issues, I admit. But I think it might be related to a lack of familiarity with the control interface than any inherent design flaws in the Shells themselves. With a bit more practice controlling bodies this way, and they should be completely indistinguishable from my original self – or each other." Tuera paused. "You're free to say 'I told you so,' if you're so inclined."

"Mistress?" Phyacair asked, with confusion evident in his echoing voice.

"You were right, and I'm glad I sent multiple bodies up here for this field test. It might not have worked, otherwise."

"That's very kind of you, Mistress, and yet I don't particularly want to." Phyacair paused for several seconds. "But I **did** bloody tell you."


	8. To Catch a Lotus

_Several weeks later, around the end of May..._

* * *

Phyacair calmly floated through the chilly pines of the Whispering Forest in western Tirisfal. He _knew_ that his target was here, somewhere, but – ah! There he is. A lone figure was standing in a clearing, and even though his face was concealed behind a rather macabre mask, the identity of the undead man was clear.

"Greetings," Phyacair rasped out, floating toward his target. "You are Nimin Duskhammer of the Black Harvest, yes?" Of course he was, Phyacair thought; there was no one else here, and this is where they had agreed to meet. But there was no sense being impolite and assuming.

"Yes I am," the Count of the House Duskhammer replied. "I can only assume that you are Tuera's... _representative_ outside of Harvest meetings?" Phyacair nodded.

"I am indeed."

"You have your Mistress' gift for me, then?" Nimin asked, cutting to the heart of the matter immediately. Phyacair merely smiled, and his cracked lips split open in several places.

"A 'gift' implies something given without thought of compensation," Phyacair said. "My Lady Tuera instead wishes this to be a sort of... 'down payment,' as it were..."

* * *

 _The previous week..._

* * *

" _If you want certain people gone, then I am more than happy to help out a friend_ ," a voice buzzed over the Black Harvest communicator. There was a brief pause.

" _I think she should be left alone_ ," a second voice replied.

" _If that is what you wish_ ," the first voice grumbled, clearly disappointed. " _I will look into other pandaren that won't be missed, then..._ "

The pitch-black communicator orb began to slowly settle on the table, and cool down as the conversation ended. Phyacair sat on the tiny sofa in Tuera's Gadgetzan safehouse, diligently taking notes. He was so engrossed in his task, that he remained completely oblivious to the rest of the world around him.

"That sounded interesting," Tuera said, sneaking up behind him as silent as a cat. The undead man practically jumped out of his skin in surprise; Tuera laughed and settled into one of the nearby easy chairs.

"Er... Mistress?" Phyacair asked, desperately trying to regain composure. "I must say, I am surprised to see you here. Didn't you say you wanted to investigate the Grimestreet Goons?" Tuera chuckled softly.

"Oh, but I _am_ , of course..."

* * *

 _Meanwhile, across town in Talan's Bar..._

* * *

"Well? What are you all waiting for?!" Tuera yelled, casually ducking a beer bottle; it continued sailing through the air and smashed against the tavern wall behind her. "I'll take you **all** on!" With a raucous belly laugh, she picked up a bar stool, set it alight with magic fire, and launched herself at the increasingly violent and steadily growing bar brawl.

* * *

"I'm still trying to get used to controlling multiple Shells at once," she said, snapping her fingers. Within seconds, one of her wild imps emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray of drinks. "I think it's going quite well. But I _may_ need to slow down production, however... There isn't really room left in the basement for too many spare bodies..."

"If you burn through them as quickly as you did during your fight with Felbringer Xar'thok, I highly doubt that will be a problem, Mistress," Phyacair said, with a hint of a smirk creeping into the edges of his cracked and broken mouth. Tuera couldn't help but chuckle and nod her head in agreement.

"A fair point, well made." Tuera settled deeper into the chair, casually sipping her drink. "So, what was that about a pandaren I heard?"

"Nimin Duskhammer was soliciting members of the Harvest, asking if anyone could 'spare' a pandaren... or two," Phyacair said, making finger-quotes in the air with his bony hands. "I believe he wants them for his ever growing Chimera Swarm project."

"Well, _obviously_. If it's Nim asking, then it's **going** to be for the Swarm. Every Harvest meeting, he gives us updates on their progress. They actually remind me a lot of the zerg we captured from Mar Sara a few months back." Tuera took one last sip of her drink, and set the glass on the table in front of her. "I think I might just get that pandaren for him."

Phyacair nearly dropped his notepad in surprise.

"Mistress?" he asked. "I must be hearing things. That almost sounds like _charity_."

"Certainly not," Tuera said with a smile. The gears in her head were turning so quickly, they were almost audible. "I've been looking for a decent excuse to get a closer look without drawing suspicion for _weeks_ now, but no opportunity has presented itself. This might just prove to be my ticket in..." She started stroking her chin and giggling to herself. "Besides, it's something to do!"

"Indeed," Phyacair nodded. "So, who are we going to snatch?"

"Well, the south side of town is Jade Lotus territory, and it's practically teeming with pandaren. And wouldn't you know it; Aya Blackpaw is going to hold a party at her family's museum this Sunday..."

"Wait, Sunday?" Phyacair asked. "You mean when the next Black Harvest meeting is going to be held? _This_ Sunday? That's going to be cutting it a little bit close, don't you think?" Tuera just laughed, getting out of her seat and motioning for Phyacair to do the same.

"I can be in several places at once, but even if I _couldn't_ , this will be a cinch. Now, come on. I'm going to need a new outfit so that I look _absolutely fabulous_ for the party we're going to crash. It's time to go shopping."

* * *

 _The following Sunday..._

* * *

Tuera wasn't the only one to crash the gala. It seemed like absolutely everyone who was anyone in Gadgetzan showed up, whether they were invited or not. Madam Goya, Krul the Unshackled (and his pet gnome), Don Han'Cho, Mayor Noggenfogger, Wrathion, Kazakus, Auctionmaster Beardo, Genzo the Shark... even "Knuckles," the legendary gorilla prize fighter from the Thunderdome was here, wearing an outfit that was completely not entirely unlike the opposite of a tux. The bouncers might as well have just stayed home, for all the good they were doing keeping people out.

Tuera drifted through the party like a phantom: visible to everyone, but unapproachable thanks to an air of indifferent aloofness. Or perhaps they were keeping their distance from Arcathion, her Void Lord bodyguard, who was behind her. Phyacair was _also_ drifting through the party, but in a more literal sense. He was hovering several inches above the floor with a levitate spell, as his aching joints were hurting too much tonight for him to walk.

There was a break in the crowd ahead of her, and Tuera stopped to inspect her outfit in one of the mirrored pillars. It was an elegant and _extremely_ expensive strapless (and backless) evening gown that she had commissioned, complete with matching 'opera-length' evening gloves. The whole affair was designed specifically to highlight all her best features and accentuate her hourglass figure quite nicely, she thought. The colors of the fabric shifted between red, gold, and black with the different light, and it clung to her figure like fire licking the side of a burning tree. There was a slit up the left side, allowing her to show off some leg and her new shoes: a pair of red stiletto knee-high boots that were almost as expensive as the dress. A black cloth choker with a trio of red gems sewn into it was wrapped around her neck, and she had a pair of matching ruby studs in her ears.

That's one of the benefits of being a completely unrepentant narcissist, Tuera mused to herself. You can spend _hours_ looking at your own appearance and never be bored!

" _Mistress_ ," Phyacair's voice echoed in Tuera's head; the studs in her ears were enchanted to enhance and focus the telepathy spell. " _There is a development. I think Aya Blackpaw is leaving the party._ "

" _Really?_ " Tuera thought in Phyacair's direction as she started to scan the crowd. " _Are you sure? White Eyes is still here..._ "

The massive pandaren known only by the name "White Eyes" was looming at the far end of the hall; he was glowering at everyone from under his armored conical hat and with his face mostly hidden by the sneering visage of his elaborately carved jade mask. The enormous muscle-bound slab of meat and fur was infamous throughout Gadgetzan as the personal bodyguard of Aya Blackpaw, leader of the Jade Lotus Gang and host of tonight's gala. If he was still here, then she couldn't be far behind... _right_?

" _I saw them talking earlier,_ " Phyacair's voice echoed in her head once more. " _I think he's acting as a decoy – a distraction to draw attention away from her sudden disappearance._ "

" _So where is she?_ " Tuera asked, continuing to scan the crowd.

" _I believe I saw her exit out the back, flanked by a pair of Lotus Assassins. If my hunch is right, some manner of illicit deal is about to go down outside while everyone is distracted by the party._ "

" _Perfect,_ " Tuera smiled broadly, and began to make her way to one of the spiral staircases. " _Meet me on the roof. This should be fun._ "

* * *

 _The roof, a few minutes later..._

* * *

Tuera and Phyacair were perched on the edge of the museum's roof, looking down into the adjacent alley. Far below them, Aya Blackpaw – flanked on all sides by several pandaren ninja – was talking with another figure shrouded in darkness (and also surrounded by guards) some distance away. Neither of the two on the roof could hear what was being said far below them, but it was obvious that whatever was going on, it wasn't on the level.

"Who is she talking to?" Phyacair asked, peering through a pair of binoculars. Tuera, meanwhile, was sitting on the ledge next to him and very carefully undoing the corset-like laces on the front of her boots.

"If I had to guess, I'd say it was Shaku the Collector," Tuera said calmly; Phyacair pulled his face away from the binoculars with a raised eyebrow.

"What, the Sha creature?" he asked, utterly bewildered. Tuera nodded, and Phyacair furrowed his brow. "How can you _tell_? He's completely concealed beneath that robe of his."

"Those are mantid down there," Tuera said, casually pointing at the winged insect-men surrounding him. "All the mantid in Gadgetzan work for Shaku. As I understand it, Shaku and Aya have a tentative alliance for the moment, born purely of convenience."

"I must say, I'm still surprised that _anything_ related to the Sha even _exists_ anymore..." Phyacair muttered, looking through the binoculars again. "I thought most of the Sha evaporated with the destruction of the old god Y'Shaarj's heart."

"Most did," Tuera shrugged, slipping off her second boot. "But Shaku gained sentience and a will of his own, somehow, and I think that must have saved him. One of these days I'm going to have to find out more details of his situation, but..." Tuera looked down again, and she smiled as the Sha-being and his mantid guards vanished in a puff of smoke. "Ah! Not today. Now that's over with, I better catch Aya before she disappears herself." Tuera stood up, barefoot on the edge of the roof, and handed Phyacair her stiletto heels.

"Hold my shoes. I'll be right back."

"Certainly, Mistress," Phyacair said, daintily accepting her boots with a nod.

Without another word, Tuera took a single step off the edge of the roof and began plummeting towards the ground. The air around her caught alight with green fel fire, and in seconds she resembled a meteor hurtling towards the ground. As soon as the Lotus Assassins noticed the ball of green fire, they all drew their swords and began backing up – but it was too late. Tuera hit the alley with the force of a bomb, sending shrapnel and green fire spreading in every direction.

"AYA BLACKPAW!" Tuera shouted from within the fire, laughing maniacally. The sound caught the assembled pandaren off guard, and they all froze in place. Tuera stood up with her arms outstretched and a broad smile on her face; her red eyes glowed brightly, and she was completely unaffected by the blazing inferno all around her. "It's so nice to finally meet you!"

At first, the two pandaren bodyguards did not budge, keeping their curved blades crossed against each other in a defensive posture... but then a pair of tiny black paws appeared from within the darkness behind them, and moved the swords out of the way. A diminutive pandaren girl with purple eyes - and a matching purple streak in her hair - emerged. If Tuera hadn't known better, she would've thought the girl was little more than a child... but her regal bearing and ice cold stare revealed her _true_ identity.

"That was... _quite_ the entrance," Aya practically growled, despite her high-pitched voice. The flames parted allowing Tuera to step forth out of the fire. "And who might you be?"

"My identity is inconsequential," Tuera said with a mocking curtsy. "What I plan to _do_ is what you really should be worried about." Tuera mimed an exaggerated faint, placing the back of her hand against her forehead and gasping loudly. "I confess! I'm here to murder you, dismantle your organization, and steal everything of value you own, just because I can!"

For several seconds, the only sounds came from the crackling of the still-blazing inferno behind her. And then, Tuera started laughing again. She just couldn't help herself.

"Nah, I'm just kidding. I don't really care." While Tuera laughed, Aya just stared at her in disbelief, eyebrow raised in confusion, slowly shaking her head.

"Well, this has certainly been... _different_." Aya scoffed, turning on her heel. "But I have more important things to do than stand around conversing with a crazy woman." The tiny pandaren girl offhandedly waved at one of her guards. "Kill her."

"What, no jade golems?" Tuera asked with a shrug. "I thought that was your whole gimmick. I'm insulted!" Aya halted in her tracks, and scowled at Tuera over her shoulder.

"Suit yourself," she said, reaching into a pouch on her belt and pulling out a tiny jade statue. "After all... golems are a girl's best friend." The pandaren girl tossed the statue on the ground, and it suddenly exploded in a flash of lightning. Tuera shielded her eyes from the flash, and by the time she looked up, Aya had disappeared... and an animated jade statue of a Mogu warrior, still crackling with the green lightning from the spell, loomed over her menacingly.

"You're big..." Tuera said simply, smiling up at the monstrous statue. It stared at her with fiery yellow-orange eyes and growled, raising its double-ended spear. Tuera merely kept her hands behind her back, conjuring a bottle from her lab: a vial of sulfuric acid. A magical spark engulfed the bottle, and suddenly the acid started _boiling_ in the vial. "... but I've killed **bigger**." Just as the golem started to bring the spear down, Tuera tossed the bottle of boiling acid in the face of the magical construct.

Magic can do many wondrous things, but those with a mind for chemistry and science can do just as much – if not _more_. For instance: the spell which can bring motion to inanimate objects doesn't actually change the physical properties of the item it is animating, leaving them weak to the same vulnerabilities. A 'jade' statue is composed primarily of the pyroxene mineral known as 'jadeite,' which is hard and durable, but fragile... and the chemical bonds which keep the structure intact can be easily dismantled by stimuli such as intense heat and strong acid. And if one were to _combine_ the two...

The glass vial shattered as soon as it hit the statue's face, and the violent chemical reaction began almost immediately. The jade golem shuddered, and the gemstone surface bubbled and dissolved, sending sheets of steam and toxic clouds of sulfur dioxide into the alley, to mix with the ash and smoke from the fire. Within seconds, the highly corrosive liquid had melted halfway through the statue, and Tuera hadn't budged an inch.

"Well, that was terribly disappointing," Tuera said, calmly stepping over the still dissolving remains of the jade golem, undisturbed by the poison gas. Even with bare feet, every step she took caused the paved stones of the alley to smolder and catch fire... and yet, none of the flames seemed to touch her _or_ her outfit. "I certainly hope that you four can prove to be a better challenge..."

The two pandaren ninja in front of her did not move... but the female on the right spoke up:

" _Four_? But... there are only _two_ of us, human." Tuera didn't even let her finish before she started laughing again.

"Oh **please**. Eeny..." Tuera raised her right hand, and closed it into a fist. The wall behind her exploded in a ball of green flame, sending shattered bricks and mortar flying into the opposite wall... and an immolated body, screaming bloody murder and flailing its useless limbs, came tumbling out of the fire and smoke. The body collapsed in a motionless and charred heap.

"... meeny..." Tuera spun to her left, with her outstretched palm sweeping the air and leaving a trail of flame; the fire spread, deflecting a trio of thrown kunai. The fire illuminated the shadowed corner where another of the Lotus assassins was hiding as brightly as if it was broad daylight. Tuera pointed a finger and a fireball exploded in the middle of the assassin's chest, turning him inside out and showering the wall with bloody offal.

"...miny..." Tuera pulled her right fist back to her ear in a backhand; the green fire shielding her arm brought the sword the other assassin tried to bring down on her head to a dead stop. Before the ninja knew what was happening, she batted his sword aside and grabbed him by the snout. Tendrils of purple shadow energy, swirling around her hand like ribbons of smoke, plunged themselves into the pandaren's face. He had just enough time to scream before all his fur fell out, his eyes began to shrivel as they sank deeper into his skull, and his skin blackened, pulling taught over his desiccated skeleton. She tossed the drained and lifeless corpse to the side, and it crumbled to ash and dust the instant it hit the bricks.

There was only one pandaren left alive in the alley. She backed up, nervously trying to put some distance between her and the _monster_ , cast in silhouette by the blazing green inferno consuming the alley. All she could see of the shadowy figure were the two red pinpricks of her eyes glowing in the darkness... and her broad smile, filled with what the ninja felt was _entirely_ too many teeth.

"... _oops_!" Tuera mocked in a cruel sort of sing-song, continuing to advance on the ninja... and that was when the pandaren dropped a smoke pellet at her feet, disappearing into the darkness. Tuera just kept laughing – a soft and intentionally vindictive chuckle - clearly unimpressed.

"Do you really think you can _win_ here?" Tuera mocked, standing still amid the carnage all around her. "I know the Lotus Assassins pride themselves on their 'no witnesses' policy... but you are **so far** out of your depth."

All she had to do was mock, Tuera thought. She'd fought her sort before – and she knew the assassin wouldn't give up until 'honor' was satisfied. So all Tuera had to do was get her _mad_... get her to make a _mistake_... and then she would have her prize.

"There was only one man who could ever best me," Tuera said, spinning in place on the balls of her feet very slowly. A blow-dart flew through the air out of the darkness, but Tuera waved her hand casually, not even bothering to look as it was reduced to cinders. "Only one who could ever match me for skill and intelligence. He knew what I was going to do even before **I** did..." Another pair of kunai came flying at her from above; she didn't even bother to deflect them. She just calmly stepped to the side as they bounced harmlessly against the bricks. "And what's more, he managed to best me with nothing more than his wits and his will. He didn't need _tricks_ or even _magic_ to fight me _,_ because he was truly a worthy opponent..."

The pandaren emerged from the shadows above Tuera, and attempted a plunging attack from above... and she was _very_ surprised _indeed_ when Tuera caught the blade in her bare hand. In an instant, all of the fire and every burning ember in the ruined and battle-scarred alley snuffed itself out, plunging them into darkness. Tuera closed her fist around the blade, and it began to glow and warp from the magical heat in her hand.

"One thing is for sure," Tuera growled, her eyes burning like hateful bonfires in the darkness. "You're no **FISHER**!"

Tuera closed her fist, and the sword melted, splitting in half. Before the pandaren could do anything else, Tuera shoved her left hand in the middle of the ninja's chest, hitting her with a blast of magical force. The pandaren flew backward through the air like she had been shot from a cannon, crashing at the far end of the alley in a bloody heap.

"Guh..." the assassin tried desperately to get to her feet, but it was useless. She barely managed to push up off the ground and cough up some blood before the darkened silhouette of Tuera loomed over her, staring at her with those burning red eyes. The pandaren brought a trembling hand to her mouth, in a feeble attempt to wipe away the blood. She grit her teeth and waited for the final blow...

But it didn't come.

"Well?" the pandaren scowled with her one good eye, looking through the strands of black and blue hair, coughing up more blood. "What are you waiting for? Finish me off, _monster_." But Tuera started laughing again, and it made the pandaren girl's blood run cold.

"Oh, you misunderstand..." Tuera said, waving her hand. A miasma of black energy, ringed with blood red smoke, appeared below the assassin. "I've got something much _better_ in mind for _you_."

"W-what?" the pandaren stammered. "What are you –" The next thing she knew, magical chains shot out from the circle of energy, and wrapped themselves around her limbs – and began to pull her down. "No! NO!" She struggled and tried to resist, but more chains appeared, dragging her further into the magical portal. Her head was the last thing visible, before she disappeared entirely, like an unfortunate victim being pulled to the bottom of the ocean by a hungry kraken. As soon as she vanished below the surface, the portal evaporated with a belch of ozone.

"Well done, Mistress," Phyacair said, as he floated slowly to the ground, still carrying Tuera's shoes. "You caused much less collateral damage than you usually do. Dare I say you're attempting restraint?"

"I know you're being facetious, Phy," Tuera said, her expression softening into a more genuine smile. "But thank you all the same."

"So... why did you choose her?" Phyacair asked. "Was there something special about her, or some particular reason you kept her alive?" Tuera shrugged dismissively.

"Who... _cares_?"

The sound of Tuera's laughter echoed throughout the alleyways of Gadetzan.

* * *

 _Back in Tirisfal..._

* * *

One of Nimin's Chimera – a burly armored beast named Dagon – trotted over to Phyacair with a large pulsating egg-like pod held firmly in his jaws. Rather unceremoniously, the Chimera dropped the pod at Phyacair's feet, which landed against the grass with a wet plop.

"I do appreciate the offer," Nimin said to Phyacair, beckoning his pet to return. "I welcome the assistance, even. And it is why I've been bartering the Proto-Chimera to certain parties, such as your Mistress. However... the first generation of the Swarm is off limits." He paused. "For _now_ , at least."

"Fair enough," Phyacair nodded, trying to look disappointed as he searched for the Recall Stone. Tuera _knew_ that Nimin wouldn't say yes to full access immediately. That kind of demand was utterly absurd, and completely unrealistic. But she instructed Phyacair to _open_ with such a ballsy and ridiculous request, so that her _real_ objective would seem more reasonable by comparison.

The fact that Nimin was even _considering_ her absurd offer was just a bonus.

"In that pod, your Mistress will find a completely pure Proto-Chimera, untainted by any outside stimuli," Nimin explained. "I even had Botan siphon extra vitamins and nutrients into it. It should be the healthiest Proto-Chimera to date."

"I shall deliver the Chimera to my Lady, with your compliments," Phyacair said, finally producing the Recall Stone. He waved a bony hand above the glowing green rune on the stone, and suddenly a black void appeared on the ground between the two of them, surrounded by a smear of blood-red fog. A cage made from a felslate alloy emerged from the portal, and inside was the pandaren girl. Her limbs were chained to the side of the cage, and she had been both gagged and blindfolded. Despite being imprisoned for several days, it only felt like minutes for her because she had been kept in stasis all that time. This meant she was not suffering from malnutrition, but her many wounds from the fight were still present and untreated. Her black and blue hair was still mottled with dry blood mixed with ash and dust.

"Ah, excellent!" Nimin practically cooed, leaning down next to the cage to get a closer look. "My new _pet_. Oh, what fun I shall have!" Nimin studied the squirming pandaren girl for several seconds, before turning back to Phyacair. "Does she have any pre-existing safety measures put in, or must I break her? Could make a mess when brought home, you know..."

"No safety measures," Phyacair said, gingerly picking the pod up, and cradling it in his bony arms. "If unchained, she will likely try to kill you. She _is_ an assassin from the Jade Lotus gang in Gadgetzan, after all." Nimin nodded, letting out a throaty chuckle.

"I suppose that it wouldn't be as rewarding if she was already broken." Phyacair couldn't help but laugh as well.

"Oh, I can tell already, the Dark Mistress is going to _thoroughly enjoy_ working with _you_!"


	9. Phantasmagoria

_Somewhere in the Dreadscar, the next June..._

* * *

A cold, bitter wind wafted around Tuera. That was one of the things she always found hilarious about this place. The Dreadscar was, quite literally, a rock floating in the middle of space; and not even a big rock, at that. But, thanks to its coterminous nature within the Twisting Nether, there existed all manner of peculiarities that, at first, second, and thirty-forth glance, made no sense at all. For instance: weather patterns on an asteroid that could not have measured more than half a mile across.

It was the bi-weekly meeting of the Black Harvest, and – as usual – Tuera was getting bored and distracted. Most of the talk this week had been silly and frivolous, concerned primarily with the wares that were to be hawked at a booth they had acquired at... some sort of... tournament or other. Apparently, the members of the Hand wanted to use it for _recruiting_ , but Tuera couldn't see the point. This was supposed to be a cabal of warlocks – with mastery of demonic energies from beyond the veil of time and space, acquired in dark bargains that would rend the very fabric of their _**souls**_ _!_ – not a pack of pig farmers at a county fair.

So, when it was her turn to speak, she decided to bring them back on topic.

"I've got something that may be of interest..." Tuera said, calmly stepping into the center of the meeting circle. "Although, it's less of an _issue_ , really, and more something I just keep meaning to do."

"Well, well, well. This _is_ exciting..." a deep voice to her left sounded off, thick with sarcasm. Tuera rolled her eyes at Gazoreth. She rarely took the floor at meetings, simply because – unlike some _other_ members she could name – she wouldn't waste the Council's time unless she actually had something to _say_.

"The other day, you mentioned over the open comms that you needed a druid," Tuera said, pointing to Nimin Duskhammer with a nod. "Well, I _found_ one."

"Excellent!" Nimin's raspy voice echoed from within his mask. "I will have –"

"I didn't realize it was difficult to find _tree huggers_ ," Gazoreth's booming baritone interrupted with another snarky comment. Tuera shot him an icy glare over her shoulder and lifted her hand.

"Not difficult to _find_ , no..." she said, snapping her fingers. "But some are more difficult to _capture_ than others." As she spoke, a large circular miasma of shadow and fel flame appeared on the ground at her feet. There was a crackle of green lightning, and suddenly a felslate cage - a rather _large_ felslate cage – rose out of the smoky portal.

A Keeper of the Grove was restrained within the cage. It was doubled over on its stag-like forelegs, with arms suspended over its antlered head by fel-chains. Twice as many chains were used on its right arm: twisted and gnarled like the wooden root-claw of a treant. In fact, the creature's entire body seemed to be wrapped in chains, keeping it pinned in place. Based on the large number of bloodstains, open wounds, and bruises on its body, the creature had clearly been subdued with excessive force.

"As you can see, I decided to go after one of the more _difficult_ ones..."

The Council erupted in murmurs and commotion. Tuera smiled, soaking in the attention... but she didn't say anything. _Probably better if they don't learn the_ _ **exact**_ _circumstances leading up to its capture,_ she thought to herself. _After all this, I might lose credibility..._

* * *

 _Several weeks earlier..._

* * *

" _Oh, and Tuera?"_ Nimin's voice continued to buzz over the Black Harvest communicator, shaking the table it was sitting on. _"If you do get that druid for me, please make sure it has antlers. They make good reagents in certain rituals and elixirs._ "

As the pitch-black orb settled and cooled, Phyacair grumbled to himself. He finished scratching the notes on his tiny pad of paper, and carefully placed both the pad and pen back in his coat pocket.

"Hurm," he grunted again, getting up from his seat. Phyacair was of two minds about this. He knew that his and Tuera's use of the orb as a means of covertly gathering intelligence on the other members of the Harvest would be found out eventually. And Nimin drawing attention to the fact that Tuera never said anything – but was _clearly_ listening in – was not an ideal situation. However, neither he nor Tuera had gotten around to setting up any means of covertly communicating with Nimin yet... so how _else_ would he get in touch?

It was his own fault, Phyacair cursed to himself under his breath.

But: one problem at a time.

"Mistress?" Phyacair said aloud, descending the stairs into the lower levels of their safehouse. The two of them – along with help from many summoned imps, some gan'arg engineers, and at least one mo'arg for heavy lifting – had been slowly expanding the lower levels of the building, to better suit the Dark Mistress' purposes. "Are you available, My Lady?"

No response.

His first thought was that this was hardly surprising. Tuera had been so busy lately, that the only way she could properly get anything done was to be in several places at once with her Shells. But then he remembered: hadn't she said she wanted to perform some experiments in the lab?

"Mistress?" Phyacair called out again, reaching the bottom of the stairs. "Are you in?"

Still no response. This was starting to worry him now. The last time he saw her was several hours ago, and he hadn't seen her _leave_ , so one of her Shells must...

Oh dear.

"TUERA!" Phyacair yelled, finally noticing the body collapsed on the floor. He rushed to her side as quickly as he could, falling to his knees and feverishly clutching at her still, motionless body. Tuera's eyes were wide open and glazed over, looking at nothing. It looked to Phyacair as if she had simply collapsed in the middle of the room. He held a pair of scabby fingers against the side of her neck, and hovered his ear over her mouth; no pulse, and she wasn't breathing. This Shell was offline. But the only reason for _that_ to be the case would be if...

In a flash, he was on his feet again, and rushing for the hatch at the back of the basement. He ripped open the false floor, pulled open the metal hatch, and dropped down into the murky blackness of the hidden sub-basement. There _was_ a ladder into the chamber, but it would've taken way too long. The shock of the impact ran up his entire body, but he ignored the sensations completely. The air was filled with freezing clouds of carbon dioxide that had sublimated in the air, and the only light – apart from the trapdoor above Phy's head – came from the lights on the various machines and technomancy powering The Device.

Sure enough, every single warning light on every machine connected to The Device was flashing wildly out of control. His only thought was for her safety. He rushed to the large steel tube at the end of the room, grasped firmly on the emergency release, and pulled it down as hard as he could. Warning klaxons sounded, and the vents at the top and bottom of the steel tube vomited a pall of blue-green gas. A seam appeared in the tube, splitting it straight down the middle... followed swiftly by a violent deluge of viscous, slimy fluid. It was like water bursting through the face of a breaking dam. Phyacair held his ground, and waited in front of the slowly opening door with arms wide, prepared for the inevitable.

A limp, naked body tumbled out of the metal pod amid the sludge, once the door was finally wide enough to let her pass. Phyacair caught Tuera by the shoulders, and tried to keep her upright... but the force of the still-rushing fluid against his legs and the body he was trying to hold aloft was too much stress on his weak, brittle bones. Unceremoniously, he fell to his knees, still trying to keep her upright. Tuera's body shuddered and convulsed, which he took as a good sign. She weakly reached up to paw at his arm, trying her damnedest to maintain control in a situation where, clearly, everything had gone wrong.

"It's okay," Phyacair rasped out softly, holding on to her trembling form as the fire suppression system in the ceiling _finally_ activated. Clouds of gas pumped from vents in the ceiling began flooding the room. "You're safe now, Tuera. I've got you."

Tuera couldn't really say anything in response. She was too busy vomiting all over him.

* * *

Half an hour later, Tuera had cleaned herself up... mostly. She was sitting on the couch in her robe with a cup of tea in hand. Her hair was still slightly wet and slimy as it clung to her head. Phyacair was in the adjacent kitchen, pouring himself another cup of tea.

"So... what happened, My Lady?" he asked calmly, sitting opposite her in the living room.

"It was my own fault," she muttered with a sigh, sipping at her tea. "I let my guard down, and the next thing I knew, I was surrounded by a dozen of Haramad's agents. One of them managed to tag me with a lucky shot with one of those Faceless One staves." She shrugged. "On the plus side, there is a bit of good news from this mess." Phyacair furrowed his scabby brow.

"There is?"

"I'm still here, for one thing," Tuera said, setting the teacup on the table and leaning back into the sofa. "Which means that the theory is sound: if a weapon is empowered to steal souls and tries that trick on one of the Shells, it will fail. But what I _didn't_ count on was the massive psychic feedback." She started wringing her hands together, and Phyacair couldn't help but notice that she was still shaking slightly.

"That does seem like an issue, Mistress," Phyacair nodded.

"I won't know for sure until I get a chance to properly diagnose the damage, but I think the system overloaded trying to transmit a sensation stretching between multiple layers of reality. One thing is for sure: the systems will require _significant_ reinforcement."

"I suppose this is a bad time to mention that Nimin asked for you by name over the Harvest communicator?" Phyacair asked sheepishly. Tuera raised an eyebrow, and her eyes darted back and forth as she quickly put the pieces together in her head.

"He wants me to kidnap someone again, doesn't he?" she asked. Phyacair nodded.

"Yes. A druid, as it happens," he replied. Tuera grumbled under her breath, rubbing her chin.

"That Chimera egg he gave me still hasn't hatched, so maybe I can leverage this situation into... _something_ which can speed up that whole process... but I'm in no condition to do anything strenuous – much less _fight_ anyone – right now."

Phyacair kept his face neutral, but inside he let out a sigh of relief. There were some days when Tuera seemed addicted to stress, and he often worried that one day, she would work herself to death... and _not_ have a way out. Like the hundreds of _other_ times she had cheated death.

"Do you want to handle this one?" she asked.

"Mistress?" Phyacair chuckled, standing up and smiling so broad that the skin on his jaw began to split and crack. "It would be my genuine _pleasure_."

* * *

 _Later that same night, in Un'Goro Crater..._

* * *

Oghma tried to stare at the night sky, but could not see a single star. The forest canopy in this part of the sweltering, primordial jungle basin was far too thick for any starlight to sneak through. He wasn't sure what to make of that. The rational part of his brain said this was natural of such verdant growth... but that meant it had something in common with Gadgetzan, that foul den of perverse iniquity on the Tanaris coast. That city was so thick with smog and light pollution, the stars were barely visible, even in the dead of night.

It had been several days since his company had passed through that city – by simple virtue of it being the closest port to their goal – and yet Oghma _still_ felt tainted by that filthy mass of unnatural concrete and pollution. The Keeper of the Grove tried to force these thoughts out of his mind, and focus on the mission.

There were many reasons for visiting this lush jungle wilderness, but one in particular stood out: the Tortollans. There had been rumors for many years of a secretive tribe of intelligent humanoid turtles living in the crater, but no one had ever managed to contact them. So, the Cenarion Circle had assembled a team of druids – led by Oghma – to try and find them. And even if they couldn't, the crater was a treasure trove of natural power and ancient wisdom, despite the immense peril. They would find _something_ of value for the Archdruids...

Skitter.

An odd sound caught Oghma's attention. He looked down at his hooves and saw something that he was not at all expecting. Several insects – from cockroaches to millipedes and everything in between – were crawling along the damp mossy ground of the jungle floor. In itself, this was not unusual... but they were all crawling _in the same direction_ , and they were rushing away with an unnatural urgency. And then, the sight got even stranger: dozens of worms were bursting through the ground, trying frantically to slither away... in the _same direction_ as the other insects.

"Keeper Oghma?" one of the night elf druids asked. The Keeper held up his root-claw hand, and the druid fell silent. Something was wrong. A vague sense of unease was washing over every fiber of his body. Or was that...

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A cold, bitter wind began to blow in from the east. Within seconds, the sweltering jungle breeze was replaced with frigid temperatures that would not have felt out of place in _Northrend_. It drew the gaze of the half dozen druids in the camp, all of whom _finally_ realized that _something_ was wrong.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Two of the druids shifted into bear-form with a flash of twinkling blue-green magic. Swirls of that same twinkling blue-green magic wrapped itself around Oghma's wooden claw, shedding dozens of multicolored ethereal leaves; several treants were summoned out of thin air.

" **WHO THREATENS THESE LANDS?** " Oghma bellowed, stamping his hooves as he turned to face the source of the icy wind... and he _immediately_ came to a halt.

A lone figure was standing between two large trees at the edge of the druid camp. His whole body seemed to be shrouded in shadow, and tendrils of fog were snaking their way along the forest floor. The chittering, slithering noises of the insects trying feverishly to escape seemed to be amplified like thunder in his ears the longer he stared.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The figure in the darkness began to move, and the darkness seemed to move with him. The shadows solidified into hideously mutated creatures of nightmare, the closer they got to the druid camp. Tentacles dripping with slime and ichor oozed out of the shadows, wrapping themselves around the trees and clawing at the ground as if they were trying to drag the darkness forward with sheer brute force. The unnatural noises within became louder still, grating like nails on a chalkboard.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

" **NONE SHALL HARM THE WILDS!** " Oghma yelled, directing his summoned treants forward to fight this encroaching darkness. They dutifully obeyed, but they didn't get far. The tendrils of solidified shadow surged forward; dozens of boils and sores on the surface of each tentacle exploded in showers of black blood and offal, revealing orifices of all shapes and sizes, filled with rows of _teeth_. Within seconds, the treants had been torn to splinters. The tentacles pulled themselves free of the shadows, slithering forward as writhing, snapping amorphous masses of flesh and teeth.

"...by the _Spirits_!" Oghma breathed out, not expecting **this** _at all_. But he grit his teeth and stood his ground, ready to face down the horrors advancing on him...

"No! NOOOAAUUUGH!" a voice screamed behind him. The Keeper spun around, but he was too late. The shadows had traveled even faster than he was expecting, and had practically consumed the entire camp. The tents were no longer made of cloth, and had transformed into hideous amalgamations of bone and melted flesh, practically fused to the new ground: a carpet of slithering millipedes. The druids with him were already being overwhelmed by monsters of Nightmare; one of the Druids of the Claw, still in bear form, was being slowly dragged into the ground by a mass of writhing, shadowy tentacles, as if being eaten alive.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Defiler!" Oghma yelled out, turning back with hands wreathed in magic. "You shall not take me!"

The figure within the shadow did not speak. Instead, an eye – impossibly large and thick with bloodshot veins – opened within the swirling miasma of darkness. One by one, more eyes within the inky blackness began to open, and the Keeper was overwhelmed by a sensation of nauseating vertigo, sending his head spinning.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"No... **NO!** " He yelled, shaking his head, and sending a shockwave of magical force radiating away from him in an attempt to force the darkness back. "I must safeguard the lands!" He reached for the sky with his wooden claw. The jungle canopy above his head appeared to part, and beams of weaponized purple moonlight fell from the heavens like spears. The energy lances pummeled the beasts of flesh and shadow; every hit caused the monsters to explode in a burst of mist and shadow... but for every beast that was vanquished, two more would rise out of the very earth.

" **FEEL NATURE'S WRATH!** " he bellowed again, using every last ounce of his strength. Within seconds, the monsters closed the gap, and swirled around him like a whirlpool of melted flesh and razor sharp teeth, slashing, and biting, and beating on his hide over and over again. Even surrounded by an aura of magical thorns, the shadowy Nightmare fiends tore into him, like a starving man tearing into a steak.

Oghma was so focused on beating back the monsters surrounding him – both with fists and magic – that he didn't even notice the figure in the shadows finally close the distance and reach up to a spot on his flank...

 _Slice_.

All at once, everything stopped. The fleshbeasts and shadowy apparitions melted and dissolved back into the shadow, and the Keeper's whole body shuddered and became sluggish. His vision started to blur and warp almost instantly, and every single muscle relaxed at once. Oghma's knees gave out, and he collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud.

Tap. A black cane was gently tapped against a rock near Oghma's head. The undead man leaning on the cane looked down at the Keeper with a wicked smile from below the bowler hat perched atop his scabbed and rotten head. He was holding up something with his other hand: a small metal scalpel.

"Curious, isn't it?" Phyacair growled, examining the scalpel in his hands as he stood over the immobilized Keeper. "Those in tune with nature, such as yourself, are able to reap the benefits of life's blessings more heavily... but you are likewise so much more _vulnerable_ to its _dangers_..."

"Wuh..." Oghma grunted, barely able to speak, much less push himself off the ground. Every part of his body felt numb. His head began to throb, as if thousands of war drums were being beaten inside his skull at once...

" _Archaefructus liaoningensis_ ," Phyacair continued, sheathing the scalpel, and placing both hands on his cane. "A plant not native to this world, and yet still found in this crater. It produces a viscous honey, which acts as an extremely dangerous, paralytic nerve toxin... As I'm sure you've noticed, all it takes is a _single scratch_..."

"Yehhh..." Oghma tried in vain to push himself off the ground. His vision began to cloud over, and he could feel his eyes begin to roll back into his head. Phyacair tapped his cane against the rock once more.

"Do not struggle. The paralysis should wear off in several hours..." He let out a low, grim chuckle. "But that's the _least_ of your worries, now..."

Oghma was consumed by darkness, and everything went black...

His mind was lost to the Nightmare.

* * *

 _Back in the Dreadscar..._

* * *

The meeting went on for another hour or so after Tuera's presentation. Once all business had concluded, the warlocks began to scatter. Tuera did not leave immediately, instead making a beeline for Nimin, catching him by the crook of his arm before he had a chance to leave.

"Nim?" Tuera said in a playful, almost sing-song, voice. "Before you depart, I wanted to speak with you."

"Of course!" Nimin said with a nod behind his mask. "Is this about payment?"

"Of a sort," Tuera nodded. "The Keeper of the Grove can be left in stasis indefinitely, for whenever it's convenient for you to pick _it_ up." She put extra emphasis on the word, making it abundantly clear exactly what she thought of her prisoner. "As far as payment is concerned, I'm curious: is there anything you have in your compound that might help speed up the hatching process of a chimera egg? A specific brand of that honey you plan to sell at the Tournament, perhaps?"

"It hasn't _hatched_?" Nimin asked, sub-vocalizing a strange sort of raspy grunt in surprise. "Hmm... maybe Botan gave it _too_ many nutrients..." The forsaken warlock tapped his chin. "Let me swing by my manor, and I can grab you what will _hopefully_ work."

"That sounds lovely," Tuera said, with a broad smile to put the Cheshire Cat to shame. "Oh! And, one more thing before you depart..."

"Yes?" he asked with a tilt of his head. Tuera snapped her fingers, and a small pearl-like orb appeared in the palm of her hand. Etched into the side of the orb was the same stylized three-toed claw symbol that was tattooed on her cheeks. What's more, the orb seemed to match one of the 'gems' inlaid in her earrings.

"Here," she said, handing him the tiny pearl. "If you ever need to get in touch with me directly, don't bother with the Harvest communicator. You can use this." Nimin nodded, accepting the orb and pocketing it almost immediately.

"I'll have to grab something similar to give to you, when I head to the manor," Nimin said. "Although, I must admit... mine is decidedly more..." he paused, waving his hand in circles to try and help him conjure up the proper word. "... _clunky_."

"Oh, there's no need," Tuera said with a smile, waving it off. "The communicator is two-way. Phyacair and I use them all the time to coordinate our efforts." As she spoke, she began backing away with a slight bow. "I'm sure this will merely be the start of a... _profitable_ relationship. For the both of us."

She snapped her fingers one last time, and vanished from the Dreadscar in a flash of fel flame. Nimin stood rooted in place for several seconds, staring at the spot where Tuera vanished.

"... I feel like I should be afraid." Nimin said aloud, to no one in particular. And yet, he got a response all the same. Fizzlecracks, a gnomish member of the Harvest who saw the whole exchange (and having gone unnoticed by simple virtue of being so low to the ground), spoke up.

"Best if you were," Fizz said, causing Nimin to jump ever so slightly in surprise. "Fear is merely intelligence in the face of danger. Those without fear are not brave, merely imbecilic." Nim chuckled grimly with a nod.

"Far too true, my friend..." he muttered. "Far too true..."


	10. Turnabout

_Sometime the following month..._

* * *

A shady deal was going down in one of Gadgetzan's many darkened back alleys. Several thugs from the Grimestreet Goons Gang were offloading crates from the back of a truck, and shuttling them into the warehouse they were parked behind. Some distance away, a female tauren and a male goblin wearing a three-piece pinstriped zoot-suit with matching fedora were discussing the business end of this deal. The goblin was smoking a cigar, counting out the stack of macaroons in his hand, while the tauren just looked bored.

"An' remembah..." the goblin said in a thick Undermine accent. "If any'ne asks where yah foun' all dis..."

"Yeah, yeah..." the tauren girl waved him off, and started walking back to the warehouse. "They fell off a truck, I got it." The goblin chuckled and shoved the stack of bills into his jacket as she walked away.

"Aight, boys, les' wrap it up 'ere," the goblin clapped his hands several times, to try and get the thugs moving... but all of them were standing still, looking up at the sky and the rooftops. "Oy! What're yah doin'? Git goin' yah gits!"

"Uh... boss?" one of the worgen asked, looking into the sky as he gripped his rifle tighter. "Didn't... didn't there used to be _lights_ in this alley?"

"Yeah..." one of the orcs standing on the back of the truck's flatbed said. "There used to be _stars_ , as well..."

The goblin looked up in the sky, and sure enough, all of the lights had been extinguished. And there was _definitely_ something wrong with the sky. There weren't any stars, there wasn't any haze or smog... it was like someone had _shut off_ the sky.

"...th' hell?" the goblin asked aloud. The only answer he received was a cold and bitter wind that began to blow through the alley...

Tap. Tap. Tap.

* * *

 _Much later, deep below Gadgetzan..._

* * *

Tuera silently walked along one of the aisles in the large warehouse-like storage room beneath her safehouse. She was surrounded on all sides by stacks of felslate cages, practically piled on top of one another. Each cage was locked within a stasis field, to properly preserve the 'specimens' from being affected by the normal flow of time.

"I take it your hunting expedition was successful?" Tuera asked, pausing in her inspection to glance over her shoulder.

"It certainly was, Mistress," Phyacair rasped out. Even hovering several inches above the ground, he was still unable to sneak up on her. He softly touched down on the ground and pulled out his cane for support before approaching any further. "I managed to find more low-life brutes that no one will miss. They were from the Grimy Goons, this time." Tuera nodded approvingly, and continued on her stroll through the warehouse.

"Good. I'm going to need as much biomass as possible for the next phase of the project."

"The _next_ phase, My Lady?" Phyacair asked, quickening his pace so he could walk alongside her. Tuera nodded, and when she spoke, she started gesticulating and speaking with an air of smug self-satisfaction. Like all genre-savvy supervillains, Tuera was well aware of the dangers of monologuing around those pesky 'hero' types... but damn if it wasn't surprisingly cathartic. And that meant, every once in a while, she'd 'get it out of her system' in the privacy and comfort of her own lair.

"Most of the bodies I've created as Shells have been relatively normal," she began. "After all, since the destruction of the Ashen Citadel, I've had to do nearly everything from memory. I practically had to start from _scratch._ As a result, these initial Shells have been relatively _basic_ : very few runes, a distinct lack of genetic modifications, only the 'standard' organs, no technomancy implants... hell, you could _almost_ call the bodies _human_." She chuckled. "And that means the biomass needed to grow them is an almost 1-to-1 exchange."

"I was wondering why the Shells seemed so fragile," Phyacair muttered, as they continued walking. The double doors in front of them opened, and the two of them entered into another section of the surprisingly expansive safehouse. They were surrounded on all sides by chromed metal tubes, with glass windows allowing them to look inside; each tube was filled with a strange brownish-green liquid that was very chunky and – upon close inspection – clearly not _quite_ a liquid.

"Exactly," Tuera said with a smile. "But I think I'm on the verge of creating a body that is, if nothing else, at least _closer_ to what I _actually_ am. And as a result, it requires _significantly_ more biomass."

"How much more?" Phyacair asked with a quirk of one of his hairless-brows. Tuera shrugged.

"Well, if my calculations are correct, each of these Advanced Shells will require biomass rendered down from at least 20 human-sized bodies. Less, if you're able to find me some tauren or ogres," she said simply, coming to a stop in front of one of the many tanks. "The enhanced muscle density **alone** is responsible for much of that. And not only will these bodies require more raw materials, but they will also need a longer gestation period before they can be safely decanted."

"How much time do the standard Shells require again?" Phyacair asked.

"Roughly 12 hours for each body, give or take," Tuera answered, activating a glowing rune on the console next to the metal tank.

"And, these new Advanced Shells?"

"A little over six days."

Before Phyacair could offer up anything else in response, the top of the tank opened up, and one of the Grimy Goon thugs Phyacair had captured from the alley earlier – one of the orcs – was dropped into the tank. Almost immediately, he started squirming in the murky soup, flailing his arms and legs, trying to claw at the glass, and desperately trying to keep hold of his breath. Then the flailing became even more desperate, once he realized that his _skin_ was starting to _flake off_.

"And... remind me again why they need to be _alive_ when we drop them in the soup?" Phyacair asked. The two of them watched in silence as the orc continued to flail helplessly, his body swiftly dissolving. He smashed a fist against the glass with a dull thud; a momentary reddish-brown smear was left against the inside of the glass as his fist burst from the impact. Pieces of his swiftly dissolving hand floated off in several different directions.

At first, Tuera said nothing, watching as the movements of the orc got slower and more sluggish as more and more of him dissolved. One of his eyes... well, it didn't so much _burst_ , as it did simply _come apart_ , causing the murky liquid to become even more brown to go along with the other pieces of him falling off.

"Who said they _had_ to be?" she said with a wicked laugh.

* * *

 _Several days later, on the ruined world of Outland..._

* * *

Lightning streaked across the dark purple clouds of the Netherstorm. Brief glimpses of worlds beyond the membranes of reality could be seen hanging in the sky. Huge pockets of mana hung heavy in the air with nowhere to go, still lingering around the broken and long-dormant Manaforges that dotted these floating asteroids suspended in the void of space.

Several structures stood out among the jagged rocky outcrops and floating mountains hanging forlornly in the air, clinging to nothing: large purple domes, pulsating with energy. Inside each was a lush, verdant landscape, brought back to life by the Consortium through technomancy and science. Inside the largest, however, was the Stormspire: an artificially constructed plateau lying at the heart of the Eco-Dome Sutheron. As far as most on Azeroth were concerned, Stormspire was the headquarters of the Consortium, and where those granted an audience could converse with a hologram of Nexus Prince Haramad.

Tuera, on the other hand, knew better. This wasn't their headquarters... but she could _get_ there from here...

"Are you sure this is wise, Mistress?" Phyacair's voice buzzed in Tuera's head through the communicator. Tuera shrugged, continuing to walk across the blasted and ruined dark purple soil toward her objective.

"I'm going to have to face Haramad eventually, if only to get him off my ass. And turnabout is fair play, after all. He went after _my_ base of operations; it's only fair that I go after _his_. Besides, this will be the perfect dry-run to see if the Alpha Shells work as intended."

"Is that what we're calling them now?" Phyacair seemed genuinely confused. "I thought 'Advanced Shell' was the name you picked, Mistress."

Tuera let out a heavy sigh of frustration as she passed through the shimmering atmospheric barrier of the Eco-Dome.

"I hadn't honestly given it much thought," she said. "I'll workshop something."

Ahead of her was the elevator leading to the top of Stormspire, and inside the building on the highest point was an Ethereal Gateway; most assumed that it was deactivated, if they even knew what it was _at all._ Tuera stepped on the platform, and after a brief delay, the lift carried her all the way to the top, where two ethereal guards appeared to be waiting for her.

"What ar-" is all one of them managed to say. A pair of bright green missiles of fel-plasma flew from her outstretched hands. Both guards were struck in the chest simultaneously. There was a bright flash, and the two ethereal guards disintegrated.

In an instant, alarm bells started going off. Civilians started running and screaming; after all, Stormspire was a neutral _trading_ hub. She didn't bother attacking the civilians fleeing and panicking all around her, since they weren't what she was here for. More and more guards appeared from the woodwork and started converging on Tuera, who was casually making her way to the Gateway.

One by one, the guards fell. Tuera was tossing spells in every direction, with the same nonchalant dispassion that one would use to swat a fly. If she had more time to spare, she might try and draw out the fights, but frankly, she had more important things to do than tussle with the groundlings. So, on she walked... calmly, deliberately, leaving a trail of fire and devastation in her wake.

Finally, she found herself outside the main building. She paused in her assault, stopping just long enough to drain the essences of two guards outside, and heard the desperate, panicked pleas from one of the last few ethereals here.

"She's unstoppable!" one of them yelled desperately. "We need reinforcements!"

"Why would I send them, when you have obviously _failed_ so utterly?" Haramad's booming voice echoed, amid a hail of static. "The Gateway is closed, and will **not** reopen. Consider this your **punishment**."

"... no! NO!" the ethereal yelled, his mummy-like form shaking uncontrollably as he gripped the holographic console. "You can't be – AUGH!" With a flash, the energy contained within the wrappings exploded, and the burnt cloth wrappings turned to ash. Tuera lowered her still smoking hand, walking into the room until she was face to face with the hologram; the projected image of Haramad towered a good six feet over her. Those who made a habit of communicating with holograms loved to make themselves appear as giants to stroke their own ego, and the Nexus-Prince was obviously no exception.

"Tuera..." the projected image of Haramad grunted out, adjusting his cloak and clearing his throat. "What an unexpected pleasure."

"Drop the coy act," Tuera growled up at him. "You **know** why I'm here."

"Actually, I really don't..." Haramad said, regaining his usual level of smugness. "The Gateway is closed. I'm not here, and you can't get to me... so, truth be told, I _honestly_ don't understand what you hope to accomplish with this rather pointless and barbaric display."

"And you really think a deactivated Stargate will **stop me**?" Tuera asked with a nasty snarl. "You should **know** by now that I can tear open the very fabric of reality on a whim. Otherwise, you wouldn't be so interested in me for all the 'rules' I've broken..." For emphasis, she even made finger-quotes in the air when she said the word.

"Maybe so," Haramad shrugged with a satisfied chuckle. "And maybe you _could_ **brute force** the Gateway into activating, like the simple-minded **gorilla** you are... but you still don't know my _coordinates_. And there are only several **hundred trillion** combinations that you could choose from. I'm sure, given a few _thousand_ years or more, you _might_ get the coordinates right, purely by chance..." Haramad started laughing in earnest. But he did say one last thing, even leaning down as he said it, just to be _extra_ patronizing:

"Have **fun** with that."

There was a fizzle of static, and the hologram winked out of existence.

"Was that part of the plan, Mistress?" Phyacair's voice buzzed in Tuera's ear.

"Of _course_ it was..." she scoffed, turning to the circular gate off to her left. "I had to make him think he has the upper hand, after all."

Tuera splayed her hands on either side, and dozens of glowing runes appeared almost instantly in the air above her outstretched arms and hands. The hermetic runes, visible only to her, shifted all around her body, spilling off her form and spreading to every surface. Everything the runes touched glowed with an otherworldly iridescence...

She turned her focus on the Gateway; lines of magic and energy danced across the surface, like a swarm of fireflies flying above a still pond at midnight. The hidden glyphs on the gate suddenly became visible to her, and the tendrils of energy connecting each made the sequence to contact the 'point of origin' obvious.

She blinked, and the room seemed to return to normal. She raised her hand to the gate, reached out with her mind, and the gate began to shake as the proper sequence of glyphs was activated. Electricity arced off the edges, striking the walls, floor, and ceiling around it, and Tuera casually stepped off to the side. If it activated the way she was expecting, she didn't want to be _anywhere_ close to directly in front of it...

 _ **KAWOOSH!**_

The burst of unstable energy surged from the surface of the activating gateway, lingering in a shape resembling a horizontal geyser, before pulling itself back. The circular gate became filled with the swirling vortex of an artificial wormhole.

"And now, for the real test..." Tuera said aloud, cracking her knuckles and approaching the watery, whirlpool like surface of the wormhole. "...to see if the signal to control these Shells can reach across interstellar distances."

"And, if it _can't_ , Mistress?" Phyacair's voice buzzed in her ear. Tuera shrugged, igniting the air around her fists in fel-flame and charging head-first at the wormhole.

"Then this is gonna be a real short trip."

* * *

 _At that precise moment, in an entirely different universe..._

* * *

Tuera emerged through the other side of the wormhole, and found herself in a darkened room, devoid of anything or anyone. The only light seemed to come from the shimmering tear in reality behind her, and her two fists, still alight with energy. And after several seconds, the light from the wormhole disappeared as it faded into nothing, leaving her illuminated only by the sickly green glow of the fel-flame.

"Did it work?" Phyacair's voice, laced with a much more inordinate amount of static than normal, sounded off in her head.

"Well, I'm still here," she said, moving forward cautiously as she began looking around the empty chamber. "So, I _think_ so..."

Bright tendrils of energy escaped from one of her hands, spearing off into the ceiling; they found the lights, and the chamber was illuminated. Every surface was made of the alien metal the ethereals were so fond of, which meant everything was either the color of off-brand bronze or deep purple. There were several bulkhead doors at the far end of the room, of varying sizes.

"If I know our dear Nexus-Prince, I'm on a space station," she said, making her way to the largest of the various doors. "I'll have to check the telemetry later, to determine where I _actually_ am, and even what plane of existence this hunk of metal is occupying..."

And then the alarms started going off.

"Emergency," a vaguely female voice buzzed from a speaker in the ceiling. "Intruder alert. Emergency..."

"And the plan _now_ , Mistress?" Phyacair's voice cracked, unable to hide his worry. Tuera merely laughed, continuing to advance on the door.

"Like I said before, turnabout is fair play. He destroyed _my_ base by letting the dangerous experiments out of their cages, so I shall do the same..." More power was fed into the flames around her hands as she spoke. The fire grew at an exponential rate, until it seemed to consume her entire body. "...and this gives me the chance to test out _another_ spell I've been working on."

"You truly are dedicated to multitasking today, aren't you?" Phyacair asked. Tuera rolled her eyes and ignored him, focusing on the spell.

The flames surrounding her seemed to 'condense' from their state as a superheated gas until they resembled a vaguely human-shaped mass of flowing green superheated _plasma_. The plasma further solidified in places, hardening into a supernaturally tough stone-like armor that completely encased her entire form. To the untrained eye, she might have resembled a tiny infernal, complete with stray fel magic spilling out of the cracks in the darkened stone. The armor around her feet grew, sprouting massive claws that dug into the metal beneath her, and her hands expanded to become enormous club-like fists of stone. Huge rounded shoulders grew to protect her armored head – which sprouted a pair of pointed horns on either side of her skull. The stone armor around her face was mostly smooth and featureless at first...

And then the stone cracked. Two holes appeared where her eyes should've been, and bright yellow fire burned from within.

By the time she reached the door, the modified 'Stone Body' spell was complete, and she was wearing (or, more accurately, located somewhere _inside_ of) the magical equivalent of powered armor. She analyzed the bulkhead door with her True Sight, pulled back one of her hands into a fist, funneled energy into the limb to alter the mass accordingly, and _punched_.

The door exploded outward in a torrent of twisted metal shrapnel, sparks, and smoke. The ethereal troops gathered outside – clad in alien metal armor rather than the traditional mummy-wrappings and armed with actual plasma rifles (rather than energy staves), grenades, and goodness knows what else – were momentarily staggered by the exploding door.

"Open fire!" one of the soldiers in front bellowed. A hail of bright purple energy beams cut through the air, slicing through the smoke and ash where the door used to be. Sparks erupted from within the murky haze of smoke, as the plasma bolts exploded against everything they hit. And still, the two brightly glowing yellow eyes continued to burn...

And then, the weapons fire came to an abrupt halt. The dozen or so soldiers all around the door had been rendered instantly silent, as every one of them to a man had been _impaled_ by long, thin spikes erupting out of the ground. When the smoke cleared, it revealed Tuera had plunged one of her fists against the ground, and the spikes had wormed their way through the floor to get at their many targets. She left them there for a second or two, suspended by the carpet of macabre spikes, before pulling her armored hand free. The spikes reversed themselves, returning to the normal shape around her fist, and the now empty armor and weapons clattered to the ruined and broken floor.

"Not even bothering to toy with them, I see," Phyacair's voice buzzed in Tuera's head.

"No," she boomed, her voice amplified into a deep baritone by the armor. She stepped over the discarded gear left behind by the vaporized ethereal troops, each step smashing against the deckplates with a resounding thud. "I need to move fast, and that means no time to waste fooling around with peons like these..."

" **HOSTILE DETECTED,** " a robotic voice bellowed. " **ERADICATE.** " Tuera spun, and was suddenly face-to-face with a massive arcane-powered golem looming over her like a giant. It stared at her with its glowing cyclopean eye, and brought one of its fists – easily ten feet tall – hurtling toward her at meteoric speed. She had just enough time to put her armored hands over her head.

 **CRUNCH!**

The armor managed to keep her from being crushed underneath the golem's fist... but the ground she was standing on was not so lucky. It had become cracked and broken, turning hilariously concave in the process. She channeled energy back into the armored limbs, and pushed off against the metal fist, staggering the giant robot and causing it to take several steps back.

"Well... I guess I can spare a _bit_ of time for you..." Tuera laughed, multicolored fire swirling around her once again.

* * *

 _Half an hour later..._

* * *

Tuera had been cutting a bloody swath of destruction through the space station. Or, rather, it _would've_ been bloody, if any of the ethereals _had_ blood. Either way, it definitely became clear to Tuera, fairly early on, that this was, indeed, a space station. That much became obvious when she came to a window and was presented with a view of the infinite inky void of deep, _deep_ space beyond.

She couldn't help but laugh. The fact that there was something _solid_ between the inside of this station and the vast expanse of nothing outside meant that it was constructed far more sensibly than the Dreadscar.

The alarm klaxons had become so overwhelming and constant in their droning that she had practically tuned them out. Any time another squad or a robot or a golem came after her and tried to bring her to a halt, she merely shrugged off their attacks. Nothing they threw at her managed to slow her down, and she just kept going, rolling through the fire like a juggernaut on the way to her objective:

The brig.

Sure, she _could_ have gone straight to the reactor powering this technomagic-fuelled space station, and just wrecked the place herself. But there were several reasons she decided against it. The first was that Haramad hadn't sent any superweapons against her yet. It had all been relatively conventional assaults, but if she made it plain what she was really trying to do, she suspected he wouldn't hold them in reserve any more. She _might_ be able to succeed in her objective of destroying this place, sure, but she didn't want to specifically test that right now.

And the other reason? **Irony**. She wanted Haramad's base to fall the same way the Ashen Citadel had fallen.

The fingers of the armored gauntlets grabbed hold of the double doors leading to the brig, and wrenched them open with a hideous screech of twisting metal and a shower of sparks. She found herself in a chamber very similar to the warehouse underneath her safehouse in Gadgetzan, except much larger, and far more high-tech. The walls were lined with prison cells, locked behind shimmering barriers of energy.

"Let's see what we have here..." Tuera muttered to herself as she walked down the aisle, inspecting each one of the cells as she passed them. The figures inside were completely immobile, indicating that the energy curtains were stasis fields, just like Tuera used.

"Of _course_ ," Tuera scoffed with disgust. "What a fucking _**hypocrite**_." There was a myriad of creatures within the stasis fields, and almost **none** of them were native to Azeroth – or even any of the worlds _adjacent_ to Azeroth. There were several xenomorphs, zerg specimens, a cyberman, a half-dozen necromorphs, at least one mancubus, a cell packed to the brim with zombies, several examples of the demons which had invaded the world of Sanctuary several years ago, many different strains of tyranid gaunts, a few Kree... the list just went on and on and on.

As she walked past the many prison cells, she debated which ones she should open. The more specimens she saw, the more she was convinced she should try and pull a "Cabin in the Woods," by unlocking all the cells at once, just to see what would happen.

Then she found a cell in the back, and she was brought to a screeching, grinding halt.

Her blood practically turned to ice, because the silhouette inside was unmistakable. If she didn't know what it was, and what it was capable of, it would have looked ridiculous: like a man-sized pepper shaker, covered in metal that had been painted a mixture of gunmetal grey and matte black. It possessed a single glowing blue eye on a stalk, a toilet plunger for one arm and an egg beater for the other. But she had seen them in action, and she knew this was, unquestionably, the most terrifying creature in this or any other universe.

A Dalek.

"He's... he's _insane_ ," Tuera practically whispered, letting out a single terrified giggle. "Even _I_ wouldn't be stupid enough to try and imprison a _Dalek_! Steal from them when they're not paying attention, sure, but _imprison_ one? That's suicide!" She took several steps away from the cell, and tried to calm her breathing. "Well... if nothing else, at least the stasis field seems to be keeping it immobi –"

The eye stalk on the Dalek swiveled to stare directly at her.

"WHAT THE HELL!?" Tuera shouted, flailing her arms and taking several steps back. Which would've looked ridiculous enough normally, but was further exaggerated by her enormous armored form and altered voice.

The Dalek continued to stare at her; the giant space-dustbin started "pacing" silently around in its cell. Clearly, it was unaffected by whatever time-stop spell or technomancy was powering the stasis field, but it didn't seem to be making any attempts to escape. Maybe it _couldn't_ escape, Tuera thought to herself.

"Well... I guess it's your lucky day..." Tuera said, approaching the energy barrier. The Dalek inside stopped in its pacing, and silently approached the barrier from the other side. The eye never once looked away. "I mean, forget the rest! I just need to let **you** out, and the job is practically done for me!"

The lights on either side of its dome-head flashed four times: once for every syllable. Even though she couldn't hear it, she knew _exactly_ what it was saying...

* * *

Everything was in chaos.

It couldn't have been more than five minutes since she'd set the Dalek free (after making sure she was _completely_ out of sight, and running in the opposite direction as **fast** as she could), and already the space station was shaking. Explosions were going off, there was a furious racket of terrified screams and desperate shouting, and she could hear the sounds of plasma weapons discharging...

It wasn't until she got a look outside, and saw several dozen flying saucers approaching that she **knew** this place was doomed. And that was only confirmed when the approaching Daleks started broadcasting a message, overriding every single speaker in the space station:

" **EX-TER-MIN-ATE! EX-TER-MIN-ATE! EX-TER-MIN-ATE!** "

"Right..." Tuera said; she could barely hear her own voice, over the constant screaming of the immeasurably cross aliens. "I think it's time for me to make my esca-"

 **BOOM!**

One of the Dalek ships had fired, causing a large section of wall very close to her to disintegrate. She barely had enough time to anchor her armored feet to the deck before all of the air – and anything not nailed down – was sucked outside by the vacuum of space. The roar of rushing wind surrounded her entirely, and the pull from the vacuum of space trying to equalize the pressure was almost enough to tear her free.

 _Well, that makes things a bit simpler_ , Tuera thought to herself. Even if she said it out loud, the roar of wind was so all-consuming that she wouldn't have been able to hear herself anyway. _I can't get to the stargate, so: Plan B._ Runes suddenly appeared above her armored hands as she waved them in front of her helmet.

There was a flash of lightning that burst out of the armor's fingertips. A fracture in reality appeared, ringed by crackling lightning. The space around the jagged tear seemed to warp and bloat, like a pot of boiling water. Unlike most of the portals she was used to conjuring, this one seemed much more unstable and distorted than normal. She didn't know if that was because of the chaotic environment threatening to toss her into deep space or because of the sheer _distance_ involved... but she didn't really care. The view on the other side was _definitely_ Azeroth.

She detached herself from the deck, and the rushing wind (not to mention lack of gravity) propelled her forward with incredible speed through the portal. She crossed the event horizon and tumbled out the other side right before the portal collapsed in on itself with a massive explosion.

"Oh dear," she said aloud when she looked around and realized exactly where she was: about a mile in the air, close to the mountain housing the Caverns of Time.

It didn't take long for her to reach the ground.

Once the massive cloud of sand dispersed after the impact, she found herself buried up to the waist by the shifting sands of the desert. The armor had taken the brunt of the impact, and she was relatively unharmed... but also thoroughly stuck.

"Okay..." she said with a tired laugh, willing the armor around her head to peel away. "That wasn't too bad."

* * *

 _Several hours later_...

* * *

"That was a successful test, wouldn't you say?" Tuera said with a smile. Phyacair nodded his agreement.

"Undoubtedly," he said calmly, tea kettle in hand. "The Alpha Shells – or whatever you end up calling them – seem to be almost indistinguishable from your real self." He paused. "Do you think this will have put an end to the Nexus-Prince's troublesome meddling in your affairs?"

"Oh, absolutely **not** ," she said, calmly sipping at her tea before Phyacair poured her a fresh cup. "But it wasn't meant to. Haramad is just as resourceful as I am, and if _I_ managed to escape, so could _he_. But this will have put a significant dent in his operations, and will give him something other than _me_ to think about for a while."

"So... all of this was just to give you _breathing room_?" Phyacair asked. Tuera smiled wickedly from behind her piping hot cup of tea, and nodded.

"When he comes back – and he will, mark my words – we'll be ready..."

Tuera's laughter seemed to echo all throughout her safehouse.

* * *

 _At that very moment, on a rooftop across the street..._

* * *

" _When he comes back – and he will, mark my words – we'll be ready..._ " Tuera's voice crackled out of a small speaker, amid a hail of static. A shadowy female, wrapped in a cloak magically enchanted to help her blend into her surroundings, listened carefully while feverishly scribbling down notes.

As soon as Tuera's laughter died down, the cloaked figure grabbed the speakerbox, and put it into her cloak alongside the notepad.

"The Shadowblade will **definitely** want to hear of this development..." she said, adjusting her hood.

A cloud of swirling black smoke appeared at her feet, obscuring her in darkness. There was a sudden breath of wind, the smoke dispersed...

And she was gone.


	11. Me's A Crowd

_The following Sunday..._

* * *

It was another meeting of the Black Harvest, in a quiet pocket of the Dreadscar. Things were proceeding as they normally did, with normal business being discussed, and no one suspecting that what was about to come next was very much _not_ normal.

Tuera smiled to herself in anticipation. Oh, this will be _fun_!

"So," Karthys words echoed with the sounds of several voices, and he tapped the bottom of his scythe against the stone floor; the sound reverberated off everything, like he was striking a gong. "Does anyone else have something to present?" Tuera calmly lifted her hand into the sky.

"I have something, that might interest... at least, _some_ of you..." Tuera smiled with a laugh, stepping back out of the circle. This was enough to raise a few eyebrows, since most warlocks who took the floor during meetings moved to the center of the circle, not outside it. "But I think, rather than _telling_ you all about it, I should simply _show_ you."

As soon as she was well and truly clear of the circle, she raised her hands above her head and clapped twice. Suddenly, the circle of warlocks was plunged into an unnatural darkness – which caused a few murmurs. Without warning, a series of pops was heard in the air directly above them. One by one, a set of colored spotlights appeared overhead, attached to a lighting grid hanging forlornly in midair, connected to nothing. The spotlights spun around several times, before finally coming to focus on Tuera. The Harvest was in for a show tonight!

Tuera snapped her fingers, and a torrent of felflame portals appeared behind her. Instruments and music stand boxes appeared, one after another; the wooden music stands were painted red, adorned with the phrase "The Ashen Orchestra" and bore the three-toed claw symbol Tuera had tattooed on her cheeks. The 17-piece band included five saxophones, four trumpets, four trombones, drums, a standing bass, a violin, and a massive grand piano off to the left. An absurd spectacle, obviously, only made more surreal by _who_ was playing the instruments: the entire band consisted of clones, identical in appearance (but not attire) to Tuera.

She snapped her fingers again, and her outfit was consumed in a whirlpool of fire. In an instant, her clothes were replaced by a custom tailored black-tie suit. She turned on her heel, and held an open hand to the band; the Tuera sitting at the drums tossed her a black fedora, to match the suit. She twirled it around her hand once before popping it on her head, and producing a microphone from thin air.

"Key of F Major," she said to her cloned band with a smile. "Hit it." Immediately, the band began playing the unmistakable sound of Swing...

 _Those fingers in my hair...  
_ _That sly come-hither stare...  
_ _That strips my conscience bare,  
_ _It's witchcraaaaaft!_

As Tuera sang, to the utter bewilderment of the various warlocks gathered here, she calmly strode forward, bobbing in time to the music. It looked like she was making a bee-line for Oriae, one of the warlocks Tuera had been getting "friendly" with lately... however, before she got close, a purple-gloved hand draped itself around Tuera's shoulder, and _**another**_ Tuera appeared from behind her. This Tuera was wearing an elegant purple gown with matching elbow-length evening gloves. She took the microphone from the black-suit Tuera, and the new one began to sing.

 _And I've got no defense for it...  
_ _The heat is too intense for it...  
_ _What good would common sense for it dooooo?_

The pair of Tueras started dancing with one another, passing the mic back and forth, turning the song into a surreal duet. By now, even the few who seemed to be enjoying the show were completely befuddled by this strange turn.

 _Cause it's witchcraaaaaft! Wicked witchcraaaaaft!  
_ _And althoooooough I knooooow it's strictly taboooooo!  
_ _When you arouse the need in me  
_ _My heart says 'Yes, indeed!' in me!_

 _Proceed with what you're leadin' me tooooo!  
_ _It's such an ancient pitch  
_ _But one that I wouldn't switch  
_ _Cause there's no nicer witch than youuuuu!_

The Tuera wearing the suit tossed the mic into the air, and it began to hover above the two of them. They started to truly dance together in earnest, while the horn section in back kicked up the tempo. Tuera even managed to spin and dip her purple evening gown wearing doppelgänger at least once during the short musical break before finally pulling the microphone back down into her hand for the finale.

 _Cause it's witchcraaaaaft! That crazy witchcraaaaaft!  
_ _And althoooooough I knooooow it's strictly taboooooo!  
_ _When you arouse the need in me  
_ _My heart says 'Yes, indeed!' in me!  
_ _Proceed with what you're leadin' me tooooo!_

The Tuera wearing the suit handed the microphone back to the one wearing the gown, wrapped a hand around her doppelgänger's waist, and began snapping her fingers in time with the music.

 _It's such an ancient pitch  
_ _But one I that I'd never switch  
_ _Cause there's no nicer witch than youuuuu..._

As she held the last note, "Evening Gown Tuera" lifted a finger, and booped "Suit Tuera" on the nose with a grin. The band behind them finished with a flourish; the "Drummer Tuera" in back hit the final note, making one of the cymbals echo madly. The lights dropped, plunging the Harvest into darkness once again.

* * *

 _Later that night, deep inside Tuera's safehouse..._

* * *

"Pleased with yourself?" Phyacair asked as Tuera – or, at least, one of her Shells – returned.

"Always am," she said with a smile and a shrug. "Why?" Phyacair scrunched up his face, as if he didn't know how to properly elucidate his thoughts.

"Well... you revealed your secret to the Harvest," Phyacair paused. "Even promised to provide details of its construction and use in the Archives! I was under the impression that The Device was your most closely guarded secret. And you revealed it after a bit of showing off."

"It wasn't a _bit_ of showing off," Tuera said, waggling her finger. "It was a **lot** of showing off." She started laughing as the two of them walked deeper into the safehouse. Phyacair sighed heavily.

"Indeed, Mistress. Still, the point stands: _why_ did you make the plans available?"

"I didn't," she said, as if her words were the most obvious thing in the universe. "Not _entirely_ at least." Phyacair furrowed his brow.

"I'm... not sure I follow, Mistress..."

"The plans I offered up for the Archives? They're based on an _Alpha_ version of the design. There are several flaws and bugs in the plans submitted that no longer exist with _mine_. Besides, I let the Harvest make several assumptions about The Device's capabilities, and did not correct them of their misconceptions." She giggled, waving dismissively. "Oh, what a silly scatterbrain I am!"

"Dare I ask?"

"Well, for one thing, I made them think that I can only take direct control of _one_ Shell at a time... and that most of the Shells running around are pre-programmed and autonomous." Phyacair thought on that for a second.

"What, like robots?" he finally asked. Tuera shrugged.

"Kind of. If anything, they probably all think I'm just really skilled at coding now."

"... aren't you anyway?" Phyacair asked, clearly still a bit confused.

"Well, yes. But that's not the point."

"I still don't quite understand _what_ the point is, Mistress, if you'll forgive the impertinence," Phyacair asked. "Why even reveal the plans _at all_? Why not try and keep it secret?" Tuera shrugged, clearly not as worried about this as he was.

"Oxygen was discovered independently three times in the span of about five years. Calculus was invented by _at least_ three different people around roughly the same time, and none of them _knew_ each other, much less _spoke_. The formula of mass-energy equivalence, the Stark-Einstein law, electroluminescence in silicon carbide... if I tried to list everything that was created or discovered by multiple people working independently from one another, we'd be here for _months_! This is because knowledge and information doesn't deal in _exclusivity_. The basic stepping stones on the path to devising something like The Device already exist on this world. They could find it easily if anyone bothered to look close enough. If not me, someone else would've come up with it, because secrets are, ultimately, futile."

Tuera chuckled to herself.

"Of course, openness in the face of inevitability is not the _only_ reason," she continued. "Those who are _interested_ in the technology will come to _me,_ and they will use _my research_ , rather than trying to conduct it independently. And that way, they will move along the paths that _I_ desire. It will help me gauge which of my... 'colleagues'... are gifted with intelligence, and which ones I will need to look out for. And, most important of all... if someone wants to, say, come after me, they'll go to my research first, to try and find weaknesses to exploit. And they will almost certainly focus on the _wrong_ ones."

"I feel like I've heard that last part before..." Phyacair mused.

"Of course you have!" Tuera laughed. "Rule 220: _Whatever my one vulnerability, I will fake a different one_. It's just a shame I can't use that mirror plan they provided in the example, it sounds like fun. But I'm _far_ too vain to go without any mirrors."

"Indeed, Mistress," Phyacair said with a nod. "So, what is the plan, now?"

"Well, I think the first thing to do is finish packing up here," Tuera said. "After all, this safehouse was always only a temporary arrangement, while we dealt with the Haramad situation. And besides... I'm sure we've overstayed our welcome here in Gadgetzan."

"News _has_ been circulating around town of our activities, Mistress. I think the Three Families are starting to get just a _little_ suspicious of all the disappearances."

"Exactly. By the time anyone finds this place, we'll be long gone, and all they will discover is..." Tuera chuckled. "...all our little _gifts_."

"It _has_ been a while since I helped you design a proper Death Maze. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed it, so thank you for that," Phyacair smiled; his lips cracked, and his yellow teeth poked through the gap.

"Oh, don't mention it, this was great fun!" She slapped Phyacair on the shoulder. "Enough of all this 'serious' business, let's move on to something more interesting. How is our little bundle of terror doing?"

"You mean the chimera?" Phyacair asked.

"Well, _obviously_. How many _other_ freshly hatched abominations of nature do you think I..." Tuera trailed off, thinking on that. "Okay, admittedly, that's a bad example. But yes, I'm talking about the chimera. How is he doing?"

"I think well, Mistress," he responded, as they approached a large plate-glass window. "He seems to be in good health, since his hatching a few days ago, and he appears to enjoy the beef you are..." Phyacair paused, furrowing his brow as he looked in the window. "Wait, you already know this, Mistress. One of your Shells is feeding him shredded beef right now."

"I know," Tuera said with a laugh. "I just wanted to see how you'd respond."

Sure enough, Tuera was _also_ inside the room, playing with the broodling chimera like he was a newborn kitten. However, despite being about the same _size_ as a kitten, the creature was most certainly **not** one. The tiny, vaguely reptilian beast had no eyes on his armored head; even though he had only hatched days ago, the vicious beastie had a mouth full of teeth, and only seemed to grow _more_ with every passing day. He scuttled along the ground on all fours, darting this way and that, flapping the tiny locust-like wings sticking out of his back as he did so. He dug into the pile of shredded beef that one of the Tuera shells was feeding him and he began wagging his tail, swinging the stinger on the end back and forth like a metronome.

He finished off the beef – after having made a bloody mess of everything – and let out a single shrill squeak.

"I can't wait to find out what Duskhammer thinks of him. After all, he's the expert on the chimera. I think this little guy has a lot of potential!"

"Indeed, Mistress. So, have you thought of a name for him yet?" Phyacair asked, as the two of them watched the spectacle. "After all, it has been several days since he hatched."

Tuera was silent for a moment, clearly giving it some thought. But then, she started to smile.

" _A righteous infliction of retribution, manifested by an appropriate agent,_ " she quoted, managing to keep a straight face (but only just). " _Personified, in this case, by a horrible_ _ **cunt**_ _._ "

Phyacair just looked confused.

"...Mistress?" he asked.

"Nemesis," she said finally; she was smiling so broadly and wickedly that her sharpened canines glinted in the light of her safehouse. "His name should be Nemesis." Her eyes widened, and her expression went from 'malicious supervillain' straight to 'undisguised enthusiasm' without a single pause for breath. "I'm gonna call him Nemmy! Now, c'mon!" Tuera said, grabbing Phyacair by the shoulder, and leading him deeper into the base, yet again.

"We've got a _lot_ more work to do!"


	12. Shadowblade

_Sometime in the middle of the following August..._

* * *

"So!" Tuera said, with only a little hint of forced cheer in her voice. "Are we ready to go?" Phyacair stared at her for several seconds; his rotten features were the epitome of exhausted dispassion.

"Very nearly, Mistress," he eventually sighed. "Although, I can't help but wonder. Has your sudden and rather drastic need for us to depart been brought on by the events which transpired earlier?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Tuera said flatly, fooling absolutely no one.

"I _do_ know what I'm talking about..." Phyacair shot back immediately.

* * *

 _Gadgetzan, earlier..._

* * *

It was a relatively quiet evening in Gadgetzan. Of course, it was never truly quiet in this den of sin and vice. There was a general murmur of voices and engines that could be heard in the distance, occasionally punctuated by the odd squealing tire or the muffled pops of distant gunfire... even at its most silent, there was an ever-present background noise hanging over the goblin city that would have been utterly overwhelming anywhere else.

And yet, for some reason, Tuera liked it. She reflected on this as she continued walking down one of the many back alleys of Gadgetzan, with no real destination in mind. Even though she'd already moved her safehouse to a new location and she no longer properly "lived" here, she felt strangely compelled the come back... and she didn't quite know why.

Maybe she just liked the atmosphere?

"Hmmm... I wonder if Szabó is still in town, taking commissions?" she mused to herself as she walked through the streets. "I'm in the mood for a new outfit. And maybe some new shoes..."

And then, the relative quiet was broken by a new sound carrying itself to her ears: the unmistakable bellow of a massive explosion. The sound of an explosion wasn't all that unusual here, since Gadgetzan was a _goblin_ city, after all... but this boom was much _bigger_ than normal, even going so far as to shake the cobblestones under her feet. And after a few seconds, she could see the rising column of fire and smoke billowing off in the distance, somewhere in the northwest part of the city...

"Hang on a second," she said aloud, quickly doing the distance calculations in her head. "Is that... that's my old safehouse, isn't it?" She furrowed her brow. "That's odd. I don't _think_ I put any explosives in that death trap..."

She thought about who might want to attack her (a very big list), and quickly compared it in her head to the list of people who might actually know where the safehouse _was_ (relatively small, by comparison). If she had to guess, it was a toss up: it was _either_ one of the three gangs who had provided her with so many dead bodies (almost certainly), _or_ it was a member of the Harvest having deduced her location from the numerous hints she'd dropped in idle conversation (less likely, but still plausible). For some reason, that second possibility was nagging at the back of her mind, and it wouldn't let go...

She made a snap decision, and subtly palmed the Black Harvest communicator into her hand. She switched the "mute" rune from "transmit" to "receive," and put it back where she found it. Now, it would _record_ everything that was happening (while silencing all incoming messages) and send the sounds to _everyone else's_ communicator. On the off chance that it really _was_ someone from the Harvest coming after her, she wanted to make sure the Hand knew about it immediately.

Another noise caught her attention as soon as she made the communicator disappear: a faint scratching of metal against stone, coming from the walls above her head. Almost exactly like the sound made by _climbing spikes!_

Tuera's hands caught alight with green felfire and she blasted the ground at her feet; she flew upward, propelled by the rocket-like burst of energy, and tumbled through the air, skidding to a stop several feet away. Two flashes of metal streaked through the air, belonging to a pair of daggers spewing magical fire from the blades. The blades were buried point-first into the ground where Tuera had been standing seconds earlier, burning the stone around them, and brandished by a female clad in red. A very _specific shade_ of red...

 _Defias red_.

"Vanessa? Vanessa _VanCleef_?" Tuera asked, unable to hide the confusion and bewilderment in her voice. As far as she was concerned, this had come _completely_ out of left-field. "What are you doing here?" She paused. "Wait, hang on. Aren't you _dead_?"

The VanCleef girl raised an eyebrow after pulling the daggers free, staring at Tuera with her sky-blue eyes. Even though the lower half of her face was covered by a red Defias mask, the annoyance in her expression was evident.

" _You_ should talk..." she said in a voice practically laced with venom. Tuera shrugged.

"A fair point and well made..." she admitted. She kept her hands alight with fire, the magical equivalent of a boxer keeping his hands up. Vanessa, having lost the element of surprise, kept her distance. The two women stood opposite each other in silence for several seconds, sizing each other up.

"Sooooo... how are things?" Tuera said with a shit-eating grin, breaking the silence. "Don't tell me you've fallen on such hard times that you're forced to mug people in darkened alleys!"

"Of course not," Vanessa replied. Tuera took a single step back; Vanessa maintained the distance. "In fact... you could say business is **booming**."

 _Okay, that was a good one-liner_ , Tuera admitted to herself silently. _But it was_ also _about as subtle as a brick to the face._

"You don't say," Tuera said, not even bothering to finish before blasting the alley with felflame fireballs. There was a loud "POOF!" and the fireballs passed harmlessly through a massive cloud of thick black smoke where Vanessa had been standing; the magic balls of fire exploded against the back wall, sending shrapnel and broken masonry everywhere. "So, who wants me dead _this_ week?" Tuera spun on her heel, creating sheets of green flame all around her that rippled through the air like ocean waves. "Don Han'Cho? Kazakus? I mean, I know for a _fact_ that I pissed off Aya Blackpaw a while back..."

There was another "POOF!" of a smoke bomb in the air behind Tuera. She tried getting out of the way of the incoming strike, but wasn't quite fast enough; Vanessa's blade slashed her in the side, scorching her outfit. The flames around her hands quickly condensed into a pair of burning fel-stone gauntlets in preparation for the next strike – but instead of a blade, she felt a foot slam into her chest, knocking her back several feet. That's when the incoming dagger-strikes started coming thick and fast.

"You really don't _know_ , do you?" Vanessa asked during their melee, starting to laugh. Tuera shrugged, backing up, and deflecting the strikes with her armored hands, occasionally letting loose another fireball.

"Honestly, so many people want to kill me, it's hard to keep track..." she laughed, ducking under another swing. Vanessa vanished in another puff of smoke. Tuera broke the armor around her hands and sent it flying; the pieces of shrapnel exploded outward, bouncing off every surface in the alley like ball-bearings from a bomb. "So, what are they paying you for this? Because I can guarantee: it's not enough."

Several objects flew out of the chaos in response, coming straight for Tuera's face: half a dozen throwing daggers, almost certainly coated with poison. Tuera summoned a barrier of felfire in front of her, and the daggers bounced off harmlessly, clattering to the ground in a pile of melted shrapnel.

From out of the shadows, Vanessa laughed.

"This isn't about _money_..." her voice echoed, but the VanCleef girl was nowhere to be seen. Tuera furrowed her brow, scanning the alleyway.

"Well, they say everyone has their price," she said, dropping the shield and keeping several other spells on standby. "...but not everyone _gets_ it." As she spoke, she started slowly backing up. "Still, I shouldn't be surprised. Your **ego** would _never_ let you stoop so low as to become a contract killer."

The irony of Tuera accusing _anyone else_ of having a massive ego was completely lost on her.

"Oh, but hang on," she said, trying to pick out where Vanessa might be in the darkness, while the wheels turned in her head. "If this _isn't_ about money... did Mathias Shaw _finally_ find some way of blackmailing you into working for SI:7!" There was a long pause, and Tuera shook her head. "Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk...Oh, how the mighty have _fallen_!" There was still no response from Vanessa, so Tuera decided to keep going. "You know, I'm honestly a bit surprised to see you working for the hated authoritarian Big Boy's Club, given your hatred of The System and long, illustrious history of fighting the establishment. I just wish I'd known you were _alive_! Hell, if I **had** known, I would have suggested the two of us team up in a buddy-buddy tag-team and go hunting for aristocrats together!"

Finally, Vanessa spoke up: "You don't disappoint. He **said** that you'd talk too much." Tuera wheeled around, turning her hand into a flamethrower and dousing the alley behind her in fire. Tuera cursed under her breath when she realized the figure in the raging inferno wasn't a person at all, but merely a _dummy_.

"What, you don't like to banter in the middle of a fight?" Tuera asked, eyes darting back and forth to the rooftops around her, trying to find her prey. "That's the best part!"

The sound of a single finger-snap echoed through the alley.

"I prefer less talk, more action," Vanessa said aloud, no longer throwing her voice. Tuera spun on her heel again, with her hands poised and ready to blast her with more fireballs –

Nothing.

"What the..." Tuera said, looking at her hand in confusion. She tried, over and over again, to cast a spell – _any_ spell! – but nothing was working. It was like all of her energy was being drained... and this situation wasn't being helped by a sudden and inexplicable ringing in her ears. She even tried casting her "analyze" spell, but... nothing...

And then she realized: she was caught in the middle of an anti-magic field! She _had_ to be! And that sharp, bloody ringing... she recognized what _that_ was, too, despite the fact that it felt like her inner ear was trying to rip itself free of her skull. There must have been some speakers somewhere in the darkened alley, because whoever Vanessa was working for was bombarding her with some kind of directed subsonic pulse weapon to scramble her concentration!

"You... what ha... haaavvvv... ffffff..." She spat out through clenched teeth, holding her head to try and focus. Her vision was blurring, and she could feel blood starting to spill out of her ears. She tried to move, desperate to get away from the sonic weapon and the anti-magic field neutering her powers, but it was like her legs had turned to jelly, and she couldn't even move.

She finally managed to divert some of the networked brainpower from some of her other Shells into the one being attacked, and her vision began to clear. She became focused just long enough to see Vanessa standing no more than ten feet away from Tuera, her right arm raised above her head; she was pointing to the sky, making an "L" shape with her thumb and forefinger. There was a bright flash from one of the rooftops directly behind the "L," followed a half-second later by a massive, booming thunderclap.

It was at this moment, Tuera knew... she fucked up.

Her whole world became noise and pain. A massive bullet ripped through her right knee, shredding the meat and bone and blowing the bottom of her leg off in a bloody mess... but that was the least of her concerns, because the ground under her now-singular foot exploded violently. She spun and tumbled wildly through the air, propelled by the shockwave and pelted by shrapnel.

She came back down to earth and smashed face-first into the pavement, reduced to a flailing puddle of bloody limbs and pain. On the plus side: she must have been blown out of range of the sonic weapon, because the only ringing in her ear was the tinnitus from the explosion. On the down side: she was almost 90% certain the femoral arteries in **both** legs had been severed. This Shell had _maybe_ two minutes before she bled out.

Tuera clawed at the ground, getting enough of her mind to focus on the most important thing: getting the Shell out of the anti-magic field, so she could figure out who was _really_ behind this. The paved stones below her – and even the building walls – began to sizzle from all the highly corrosive toxic blood that had been sprayed out of Tuera's veins.

"Oh, how the _mighty_ have **fallen**..." a gravelly, masculine voice mocked her, mirroring her words from earlier. Tuera's blood (what little was still left inside her, at any rate) became icy cold. She _knew_ that voice. With effort, she pushed off the ground and onto her back, so she was no longer face-down.

A man was looming over her with his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing scarred and heavily worn black leather armor, to conceal and old (but fit) body that was, itself, scarred and heavily worn. The bottom half of his face was wrapped in a black bandanna; the top half of his face was mostly obscured by a tangled mass of bone white hair poking out from beneath a wide-brimmed black hat. A pall of heavy darkened shadows materialized from nowhere, surrounding them both.

She didn't _need_ to see his steely-grey eyes staring at her to recognize her old nemesis. That was just the final nail in the coffin.

" _Sheason Fisher_..." she growled out his name. "I always knew you'd come back for me one day..." She grunted in pain, coughing up blood and trying as best she could to crawl away from him as fast as she could.

"I'm surprised to see you do your own dirty work," he said, refusing to move from his spot. "I would've expected to see that clone you made of me running around, instead." Tuera paused briefly, letting out a single defeated chuckle once she remembered:

"He kind of... uh... doesn't exist anymore," she replied, continuing her attempt to crawl away, and omitting the detail that the clone was in stasis on the Ashen Citadel when she and Phyacair were forced to escape. Sheason snorted.

"And here I thought Haramad would just be an unpleasant distraction," he said, grinning behind his mask. "I guess he did better than I _thought_ he would. You've gotten **soft**."

A string of curses ran through her mind as she silently fumed, trying to kill him with her mind. It didn't work, so she assumed she must still be in the anti-magic field, and tried crawling away further.

"And what about _you_?" Tuera snarled. "Where's that bull-headed lummox trying to pass herself off as _me_ that you've been **fucking**? I would've expected that brain-damaged drool dispenser to be your muscle in this, not _VanCleef_..."

Sheason stared at her again, keeping noticeably silent. Tuera raised an eyebrow.

" _ **Oh...**_ " Tuera said with sudden interest. "Or is she _gone_? Finally got her head lopped off, I bet..."

"No..." Sheason growled, letting out a heavy sigh. "She **left**."

Even torn apart as she was, Tuera couldn't help but laugh hysterically.

"I guess it's true what they say..." Tuera mocked. " _If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story._ " Tuera's laughter became more ragged and uneven; this Shell had lost **a lot** of blood, and it was starting to make her lightheaded.

"I suppose so," Sheason conceded with a shrug. "And I'm going to bring **your** story to a close. I've been cleaning house, and that means it's now down to you... and _me_."

An electric tingle ran up Tuera's arm, and she felt a swell of power rise in her chest. She was no longer caught in the radius of the anti-magic field! She smiled wickedly and began to cackle.

"No! It's just **ME!** " She yelled, channeling every ounce of strength left to this shattered and broken Shell. She summoned up a blast of felfire, lightning, and plasma. The beam of death screamed through the air, straight for Sheason's chest...

...and it passed through him harmlessly. His holographic body shimmered and flickered, distorting around the edges. Tuera collapsed backward, having depleted herself of whatever strength she had left. She coughed and choked, blood leaking out of every orifice and clouding her vision.

"I know you're not really here, same as _me_ ," the holographic Sheason said, just as soon as the image stopped flickering. "But that won't stop me. I'll just keep killing you, over and over again, for as long as it takes... until you finally **stay** dead."

Tuera looked up weakly, trying to find the strength in this Shell to do _one last thing_...

"I... guess the... the game is... back on..."

With that, Tuera's body began to self-immolate, with white-hot fires burning with an intensity that could _boil_ solid tungsten. Even all the protective runes, genetic enhancements, technomancy implants, and magical wards designed to protect against being harmed by her own fire couldn't work fast enough to counter temperatures of over 6,000 ºC. The Shell – and quite a lot of the alleyway it had been lying on, besides – was instantly vaporized in a blinding flash. It only took several seconds, and all that was left was a very deep hole of molten slag and ashes.

* * *

 _At that moment, on a rooftop half a mile away..._

* * *

Sheason switched off the hologram projector and chuckled to himself. Vanessa VanCleef approached him from behind.

"I think that went pretty well," she said.

"Yeah," Fisher growled with a nod. "Thanks for the help in this. She may expect me now, she _still_ won't see me coming..." VanCleef looked at him curiously.

"What are you talking about?" she asked. "I mean... she kind of... _exploded_. That tends to kill people, doesn't it?" Sheason chuckled, shaking his head.

"Says the girl who faked her own death with a massive exploding orc _battleship_..." he said. VanCleef sighed heavily, rubbing her temple, and Sheason continued. "Tuera's been cheating death longer than either of us has even been _alive_. She's still out there, and now that she knows I'm onto her? She's going to **run**."

"Alright... so what's our next move?" Vanessa asked, as Sheason packed up his gear and slung the massive anti-armor rifle over his shoulder.

" _We_ don't have a next move," he said. " _I_ am going to chase her, alone." VanCleef shot him a confused look, and he shrugged. "Where she's going, you won't be able to follow. **None** of the Uncrowned will. Trust me, it's... _better_ this way."

"So... all this was just to get her to _run_?" Vanessa asked. Sheason nodded.

"Yep. If she's running, she'll be too focused on staying _alive_ to hurt anyone. And she may be good... but I'm _better_. So far, everything has gone just as planned." He started to walk to the exit, but hesitated for a moment, and turned to her. "Give my regards to Ravenholdt when you get back. And... Tell Mathias I said thanks. His debt's paid up; he no longer owes me one."

"I'd rather not talk to the head of SI:7, if it's all the same to you," Vanessa said. She paused, thinking for a moment. And then: "So, if you're leaving, does that mean I get the top spot as Shadowblade?"

Sheason couldn't help but laugh.

"You're gonna have to take that up with Garona," he said, vanishing into the shadows. "But that is **definitely** not my problem anymore..."

* * *

 _Some time later, at an undisclosed location..._

* * *

"So, you're really serious about this?" Phyacair asked, as the two of them walked up the boarding ramp.

"I don't really have a _choice_ now, do I?" she said. "I fucked up. My humiliating defeat - _and_ the loss of one of the Άλφα Shells – was broadcast to the entire Harvest, simply because my paranoia got the better of me. And if I was wrong, and no one actually _was_ after me _before_ , they most certainly will be **now**. The sharks will have smelled **blood** in the water. The most sensible course of action at this particular moment is to leave Azeroth and _never look back_."

"If that is your intention, then it's possible we're going to need something with a bit more _oomph_ than a hijacked Legion voidship," Phyacair said dryly, referring to the vessel they had been loading everything into all morning. Tuera shrugged.

"You need to look at this like _any_ hot vehicle: _this_ is just the thing to get us out of the area, before we dump it and find something _better_ to shake off the cops. It just has to last long enough to get us out of this universe so we can find a **proper** starship to carry all my stuff."

"And what of your nemesis, Mistress?" Phyacair asked. Tuera furrowed her brow.

"I thought we sent him back to Nimin in a care package, so he could frolic with the rest of the swarm on his manor house in Tirisfal?"

"Er... no. No, Mistress, not the... I didn't mean the chimera you _named_ Nemesis," Phyacair stammered out. "What of your _arch-nemesis:_ Sheason? What are we going to do about _him_?"

"I don't know," Tuera admitted, with a nervous chuckle. "I honestly didn't think he'd _ever_ come back to Azeroth. But now that he has... we need to prepare. He will come after me, again and again and again, until one – or both – of us is dead, for **good**. No matter where we go, I'm sure he's going to find a way to follow us. For now, however, the safest place is going to be on the move. So let's get moving!"

For all her nervousness on the outside, Tuera was practically giddy with excitement on the inside. For the last few months – hell, the last few _years_ – she had been **dreadfully** bored. Absolutely _nothing_ Azeroth could throw at her had provided a decent enough challenge to arouse her interest. She had tried to foster conflict and create her own entertainment, hoping that things would eventually pick up, but nothing and no one could contest her power or skill... except _Sheason_.

As she and Phyacair walked up the ramp into the voidship, she had to bite her lower lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. For the first time in a long time, she was going to get the one thing she desired above absolutely any and everything else:

A **challenge**.


	13. Adrift

_Five months later..._

* * *

Sheason Fisher sat in the escape pod, scratching at his grey beard as he looked out the single circular porthole. He couldn't help but sigh as he surveyed the carnage the two of them had just narrowly escaped, set to the backdrop of a curtain of stars. There _had_ been a planet (technically a moon) down there. Key word: **had**. All that remained was nothing more than rocks, fire, and dust, spinning off wildly into the cosmos.

Sheason suddenly became aware of just how far away from home he had come. He was, at the moment, a **very** long way from Azeroth.

"This is certainly one hell of a mess you've gotten us in," he growled at the other passenger in the escape pod, sitting opposite him.

"Oh, _please_..." Tuera sighed, slouching in her seat, and clutching her head. "It's not like **I** was the one who blew up that moon."

Tuera Ashama – _former_ Coven High Witch of the Crimson Dagger, _former_ Dark Mistress of the Ashen Citadel, _former_ Invoker in the Order of the Black Harvest, and _former_ megastar/socialite of the _former_ planet-sized moon below – had certainly seen better days. She was wearing everything she currently owned, and what she owned was frayed and battle scarred almost beyond recognition. And yet, despite having just been in a warzone and very narrowly escaped being atomized, she still somehow managed to project an air of calm regality and bored dispassion.

On any other day, Sheason and Tuera would be at each others throats, fighting to the death in a fiery climactic showdown, probably in a hollowed out volcano somewhere. But today was most assuredly **not** like any other day.

"Maybe not," Sheason admitted with a shrug. "But if it wasn't for you, I would have never gotten involved in the first place."

"Yes, you would," Tuera said matter-of-factly. "The way you've been dogging me the last few months, I'm _sure_ you would have noticed my father sooner or later, even without me coming to you for help." She gestured to the porthole between them. "Be honest: if you discovered what he was up to on your own, wouldn't you have _still_ tried to stop him?" She chuckled softly to herself. "Isn't that was _heroes_ are supposed to do?"

"I'm no hero," Sheason growled back.

"Don't worry, your reputation is safe with me, _Shadowblade_ ," Tuera chuckled. "You may not want to call yourself a hero, but I know you. When the chips are down, and you have to make the tough choices, you try and do what you think is right. That's why I knew you'd help me try and deal with my father. Whenever Venthrax shows up, everything – and I mean **everything** – he touches gets ruined. Because that's just what he **does**."

"I can believe that," Sheason said. "After all... he made **you**."

The two of them sat there in silence, staring at each other for a few moments.

"You know, there's something I never figured out," Tuera broke the silence, leaning back in her seat and absentmindedly toying with her hair. "I keep thinking back to the bad old days, when we were fighting practically every other week, and I honestly can't recall what set everything off. I can't remember anything I ever did to you personally... so it just begs the question: why **do** you hate me so much?"

There was another long silence as Sheason leaned forwards, wringing his hands and cracking his knuckles.

"I don't... _hate_ you," he finally said, looking up at her from beneath his bushy eyebrows. "I feel responsible. I was the one who let you out, all those years ago. Everyone you've killed since then, everything you've destroyed... everyone you _step_ on, because you just don't _care_... all of that is on **me**."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, you don't have to worry about any of that anymore," Tuera said, almost dismissively. "For one thing: I've died so many times, I'm sure I've more than paid for whatever I've done. And for another, it's like I keep trying to tell you: I am over that phase! I know we've had our issues and differences in the past, but I don't want to continue with the whole 'nemesis' thing. It's gotten boring! Being a supervillain just isn't fun anymore."

"Uh-huh," Sheason sounded unconvinced. "And what happens when you get bored, and shift gears back into Evil Overlord territory again?" Tuera buried her face in her hand and shook her head, chuckling to herself softly.

"How about this: we'll strike a bargain." Tuera leaned back in her seat. "As soon as we deal with my father, we can go back to trying to kill each other, if that's what you _really_ want. But, to be honest, that sounds **exhausting**. However, if, during the course of dealing with Venthrax, I can somehow show you that I'm no longer interested in doing any... supervillainy... _things_..." She started waving her hand vaguely as she spoke. "...do you think we could indefinitely extend this truce of ours?"

"Well..." Sheason leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms across his chest. "I suppose... it's only fair... that I... _consider_ it."

"First sign of megalomania and/or mass murder, I give you permission to come at me with everything you've got, and we can go back to being mortal enemies," Tuera said confidently, holding up her hand in a sarcastic 'scouts honor' gesture.

"I wouldn't need your permission if that were the case," Sheason said with a smirk. Tuera laughed with a shrug.

"I suppose not," she said. "We can at least pretend to be civil with each other until that day comes, though, right?"

"Seems fair enough," Sheason nodded. "Sure."

"Good..." Tuera nodded. "Good."

The two of them sat in another extended silence, as Sheason took another look out of their escape pod's one window.

"So, how long do you think we'll have to stay here?" he asked. Tuera shrugged, waving her hand around. Faint ribbons of multicolored light trailed behind her fingers. They seemed to vanish almost as quickly as they appeared.

"Well, considering the pod's current rate of acceleration and taking into account the diameter of the suppression field nullifying my magic..." Tuera snapped her fingers several times; a few pathetic sparks appeared, but little else. "I'm guessing, maybe... two hours?" Sheason grunted, wrapping his hands behind his head in a feeble attempt to get comfortable.

"Sounds like we're in for a long wait..." he said. Tuera rested her chin in the palm of her hand and started drumming her fingers on her knee in response.

"I guess so..." she sighed.

Another long silence followed, as the escape pod continued tumbling through space. After a minute or two, Tuera finally broke the silence:

"Wanna fuck?" she asked, casual as you please. Sheason, completely caught off guard by this question, spluttered and choked momentarily.

"Uh..." he said, when he finally found his voice. "I'm fairly certainly I didn't hear **that** right..."

"Yes, you did," Tuera stated, just as matter-of-factly as before. Sheason continued to stare at her in dumbfounded confusion, so she continued. "If we're going to be stuck here for the next two hours, then we'll need to find a way to pass the time somehow, because I don't want to get bored. And, wouldn't you know it, I didn't think to pack a deck of cards in my bra today..." As if to emphasize her point, she grabbed the edge of what remained on her ruined outfit's collar, and tugged it loose.

Not by much.

But enough.

"So, I'll ask again," she said, leaning forward deliberately; there was a flash of hunger that burned in her red eyes. "Are. You down. To fuck?"

There was another long silence as Sheason considered these words. Finally, he answered with a shrug.

"Yeah, okay."


	14. Throwing Rocks

_A few months later..._

* * *

A cracked and broken world was spinning wildly out of control. If there was any indigenous life left on the surface, the chaotic and frenzied motion as it careened through the depths of space would be practically imperceptible... but the lone figure walking along this desert of powdered bone was able to sense it instantly. She felt it just as easily as one would feel a breeze of wind on their face.

 _Something has just knocked this world out of orbit_ , she thought to herself. _But right now... that is the_ _ **least**_ _of this planet's problems._

Something on the edge of the horizon was blotting out the red sky. It was even starting to eclipse the dim magenta light from the dying brown dwarf above her head. But while it was obvious Something was happening, the woman walking towards It was having difficulty describing what, exactly, It **was**.

A shifting miasma of lights and colors were stretched thin across the effervescent membranes packed tightly between universes and dimensions. Thoughts and emotions were made flesh as holes of unreality winked in and out of existence billions of times a second. Rivers of crystalline time itself solidified and cracked, exploding into ribbons of folded space before disappearing again. Sounds from all across the universe screamed in a torrent of liquid noise crashing through the nothing of broken reality; it was both impossibly loud and barely above a whisper.

And of all the many impossible things happening in front of her eyes, consuming the landscape like some violent beast with an unquenchable hunger, there was one sight above all that gave her pause: a shadowy, vaguely humanoid, figure was standing in the middle of It. She couldn't tell if he was wreathed in flame, or if he was simply being distorted by the indecipherable madness of It transpiring all around him... or, perhaps, an even more terrifying prospect: that _It_ was merely an extension of _Him_.

The figure turned, and fixed a pair of burning eyes on the woman.

She stopped dead in her tracks. It was like an entire ocean of molten metal had been suddenly upended on her head. Everything in and around her body shuddered under the strain. Reality under her feet started to momentarily crack under His gaze... but then the cracks filled and began to retreat. Waves of force pushed back against the unrelenting pressure closing in all around her.

" _ **Tuera...**_ "

The word emerged from within the chaos. Thousands upon millions of voices spoke in perfect unison, vocalizing the word in a growling baritone murmur from every direction.

"Hello, father..." Tuera said, balling her shaking hands into fists. She summoned every last ounce of her strength and reasserted her will around her, keeping her feet stubbornly clinging to the fragile skin of this dead world that hadn't yet realized it was deceased.

* * *

 _At that moment, in orbit above the planet..._

* * *

Sheason Fisher sat at the controls of his spaceship, watching the planet spinning below him on the other side of the transparent steel view screen. Warning klaxons were bellowing at him, trying to encourage him to go literally **anywhere** else in the universe. He couldn't help but chuckle.

"Son of a bitch. Even my _ship_ knows this planet is fucked..." he grumbled, scratching at his grey beard.

He didn't like just sitting here. For one thing, he was just **sitting** here. It made him feel incredibly useless, and he didn't like feeling useless. And for another... he was sitting here, because he was waiting for _Tuera_ ; waiting for her to either return to the ship, or for the timer to run out. Only **then** could he break orbit and warp away from this rapidly imploding star system.

Sheason did not like working with Tuera. While he was able to admit that he didn't, strictly speaking, "hate" her – at least, not anymore – there was far too much bad blood and ugly history between the two of them. Both of them knew that they needed each other at this particular juncture, which meant that working with her was a necessary evil... but Sheason didn't, even for a single second, consider actually _trusting_ her. Not even during their occasional sessions of "stress relief."

As soon as he was no longer needed, Sheason thought to himself, she would slide in the knife and try to dispose of him. That's the one thing he was absolutely sure of.

A new alert appeared on the console of his ship, flashing with a blinking red light; he didn't even wait for the noise before he started leaning on both of the control sticks. The ship groaned and shuddered as the engines ignited and the ship began to move.

"Fisher!" Tuera's voice cracked over the tinny speakers of the in-ship communicator. "I'm on board! We've got to leave! NOW!"

The nose of his ship swung around, and Sheason aligned the massive starship with the escape vector out of the planet's gravity well. The vaguely feminine robot voice of the ship computer counted down calmly as the warp engines spun up; as soon it reached zero, the starship lurched forward and was flung into a tunnel through space.

* * *

A few minutes later, the door to the bridge slid open, and Tuera stepped inside. The view outside of the windows on the bridge was pitch black, although a trio of holographic screens in front of the pilot seat showed an array of swiftly-moving blue-shifted stars to compensate.

Tuera looked a complete mess. Her outfit was shredded and burned; she was bleeding heavily from several deep wounds, including a nasty gash on her forehead; smoke and steam seemed to be billowing away from her body in dirty clouds with every movement; every single one of her hairs seemed to be completely frayed or burnt. Before Tuera could get more than five feet into the bridge, the pilot seat swiveled around to reveal an annoyed looking Sheason, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

"Alright, spill," he said, completely undisturbed by her appearance. "What in the fuck happened down there?"

"Eh-heh..." Tuera chuckled, running a hand across the gash in her face, to keep any more blood from leaking into her eye. "Well, I've got bad news, and I've got worse news." She stumbled forward and collapsed into one of the nearby co-pilot chairs. Unlike the deck plating beneath her feet, the chair had not been made chemically neutral, and started to sizzle from her highly acidic blood.

"You're paying for that," Sheason grumbled. "Alright, so what's the bad news?"

"I found Venthrax," Tuera said, unable to keep herself from sighing and slouching in the chair. For as much as she was trying to resist the inevitable, exhaustion from the fight had started to set in. "And I'm pretty sure I know what his plan is, now." Sheason cocked an eyebrow.

"What, destroying planets isn't enough?" he asked. Tuera shook her head.

"He's not destroying them. He's _consuming_ them. He's consuming all available matter and energy from every star system he visits, across multiple layers of reality. He's adding them to his own power, and it's..." Tuera hesitated, gulping loudly. "Honestly? It's _terrifying_."

Sheason knew he should be worried by that. Tuera wasn't afraid of **anything**. That was one of her defining traits. But there was something else she said that he was trying to focus on.

"Why does this plan sound familiar?" he asked. "Did you try this at one point?"

"No," Tuera said flatly. "But I told you about it. It was something I found out about in my trips across the various different alternate multiverses. Remember the Crisis on Infinite Earths? This is basically the Anti-Monitor's plan." Tuera shrugged. "Not surprising, really. Once you go beyond a certain power threshold, the only options are 'consume everything,' 'destroy everything,' or 'enslave everything'."

"Well then, I'm guessing that's the worse news," Sheason said, with a surprising air of calm. "Because unless you've got Superman from Earth-2 on speed-dial, ready and willing to punch your father into a supernova, I think we're **fucked**. Especially since, as far as I'm aware, the Superman from Earth-2 is still **dead**."

"Oh, it's even worse than you think," Tuera said, rubbing her tired eyes. "I'm not sure he even _has_ a physical form anymore. As far as I can tell, he's currently existing coterminously across several dimensions, with his..." she paused, waving her hands in the air; she was having trouble thinking of descriptions simple enough for a layman like Sheason to simply _understand_. "... his mind, essence, and soul all threaded through several realities at once. I gave him everything I had, and it was... it was like I was... throwing rocks..."

"Oh, fer fuck sake..." Sheason buried his face in his hand and started to slowly rub his temples. How did he always get mixed up in this shit? Right now, he was really longing for the days when the craziest thing he had to worry about was a bunch of orcs invading Azeroth. "Alright, so how do we kill him?" He paused. "Hell, is it _possible_?"

No response.

"Tuera?" Sheason looked up. Tuera was slumped in the chair completely now, having passed out from either blood loss or exhaustion. Probably a bit of both. "Fuck sake..." Sheason turned away, flicking a switch on the console to summon a trio of medical bots to come collect her and carry her to the infirmary.

Sheason returned to the controls in silence, preparing himself for when they returned to Realspace and his input would affect the ship again. He had plenty of time to prepare, the hyperspace conduit would keep them on course for at least another half an hour or so. So he just started thinking about everything she had said, trying to make sense of it.

"Maybe we really **are** fucked," he muttered under his breath grimly. "Because I don't think we're gonna find a big enough rock..."


	15. Hubris and Slavery

It had been several weeks since Tuera had last set eyes on her father Venthrax... or, at least, the enormous mass of pan-dimensional planet destroying madness that her father had _become_. He was certainly a far cry from the fragile Dalaran mage that he _used_ to be over a century ago, and _very_ different than the demon lord who had abandoned the first Ashen Citadel nearly three decades previous.

She had been forced to run from him during their last encounter, but considering the scale of what she was up against, that was entirely expected. To make sure that this next encounter would play out different than before, Tuera and Sheason had been busy on a plan to even the odds.

Tuera had come across many beings in her travels that were stronger than Venthrax. He wasn't all powerful (at least, not yet...). But the problem was that all those beings that could match him – or were his better – were fickle and unreliable. They all seemed to think of themselves as Gods – assuming they were even consciously "aware" by mortal definitions at all.

And Tuera was an atheist. Everything that has a beginning has an end. Everything withers. Everything dies eventually – hell, she'd been to some universes where even _death itself_ was able to die. As far as she's concerned, if something can die? It's not a god. Everything, including her father, has a weakness; the trick is finding it, and exploiting it...

"How much longer?" Tuera asked, staring out of the main viewport of Sheason's starship at the planet below. "I thought we would've been done by now."

"Have a little patience," Sheason grunted from the pilot seat, toggling a few switches on the console next to him. " **You're** the one who insisted these satellites had to orbit in a specific pattern to get the 'sigil' correct."

"Hmph," Tuera rolled her eyes. "You should let me fly. I can-"

"Not a chance," Sheason barked. "This is **my** ship."

"Out of the two of us, I can _actually_ fly. You know that, right?" Tuera asked, turning to Sheason with a cocky smirk.

"Out of the two of us, who had the patience to _actually_ get a pilots license?" Sheason shot back.

Tuera grumbled in annoyance, but didn't say anything. She didn't want to admit it out loud... but he was right, and she knew it. It was always annoying when he was right. Sheason flipped another switch on the console, and the ship shuddered as the last of the satellites was ejected from the underside cargo hatch.

"Are you really sure he's down there?" Sheason asked, leaning over the console to look out the viewport. "It doesn't look like it. The last time he was on a planet, we could see the effects from orbit. It was practically _cracking_ from all the strain..."

"Oh, he's down there, alright," Tuera replied, turning to leave the bridge. "Make sure to keep the engines running, just in case this doesn't work."

"Will do," Sheason said, shooting her a lazy salute. As she passed, he slowly spun the pilot seat to face her. "But... you know we're never gonna get another shot at this if it **doesn't** work. You **know** that, right?"

Tuera paused for a long time at the door, her hand hovering just over the button.

"Keep the engines running all the same," she said, flashing him a smile. The doors slid open with a hiss, and Tuera started to leave once again.

"Good luck down there," Sheason said, just before the doors slid shut behind her.

* * *

Far, far below the orbiting starship was a vast pristine ocean of translucent blue; a glassy expanse of rolling waves, stretching out to the horizon in every direction. The only imperfection was a single tiny island of rock breaking the surface. The only sound, apart from the wind, was the breaking of waves against the shore.

A crack of thunder broke the stillness. Tuera appeared on the island amid a bolt of lightning. She looked rather different than she usually did as she stood in the swirling smoke of her entrance. She wasn't wearing some high-fashion, hopelessly impractical outfit of flowing robes, expensive jewelry, and absurdly high heels for one thing; today, she'd opted for something form-fitting and practical. She was even wearing _flats_. This was an outfit that would offer her as much freedom of movement as possible, which she would definitely need today.

Tuera started surveying her location. This untouched virgin island, made of many different types of igneous rock, was as far removed from anything as you could get on this planet. It was, for all intents and purposes, in the middle of nowhere. This was a perfect location to initiate Phase 1: no one would get in the way. There wasn't too much room to maneuver... but that wouldn't matter so much for this first part.

"Well..." Tuera muttered to herself, rolling her shoulders several times to loosen them up and cracking her neck from side-to-side. "Here goes nothing."

The wind shifted. The sky began to darken above her head, as storm clouds materialized out of nowhere; lightning flashed from within, and thunderclaps boomed. The ocean surrounding the island instantly became choppy and rough, with waves crashing against the rocks and sending sheets of salt water spraying into the sky. Tuera clenched her hands into fists, and the ground beneath her feet began to quake and rumble. Around her, stones of all sizes began to lift in the air, in complete defiance of gravity. As the air surrounding her began to heat up, the stones on the island began to glow, spark, and catch fire spontaneously. The many textures of volcanic rock that made up the surface of the island became so hot that everything started turning back into magma; giant columns of steam exploded into the sky as the super-hot liquid stone collided with the roiling, boiling ocean.

One by one, she dispelled the illusions that kept her power disguised. She deactivated the self-imposed magical restraints that prevented her from accidentally ripping holes in the fabric of reality with a mistimed cough; useful in a fight, but significantly less-so when she just wanted to walk around normally without breaking everything. As the invisible runes surrounding her shattered, the reserves of energy she could draw from grew exponentially, and her unshackled power affected every molecule of the environment around her.

She was doing this to get the attention of Venthrax. The energy she was unleashing was not just something that needed to be _seen;_ right now, she shone like a lighthouse beacon, burning with an intense flame through every layer of reality and several parallel dimensions existing coterminously with the space she was occupying. With any luck, he would take the bait. Just like he did _last_ time she did this, several weeks ago...

Only this time, she was facing him with a plan.

 _Something_ appeared at the edge of the horizon. The ocean parted, and the skies several miles distant began to smear, splitting open in a kaleidoscope of color. Tendrils of energy and flesh clawed their way through the parting ocean, tearing at the sky and pulling itself to the surface, holding onto nothing.

Tuera smiled to herself, as both her hands became wreathed in multicolored flame. Sure enough, her father took the bait, like a moth to a flame.

The massive wall of flesh, trailing shadowy echoes of iridescent eldritch flame behind him, charged through the ocean waves towards Tuera as if the water simply wasn't there. Titanic walls of water preceded him, and the tsunami hit the island with such force that it was practically obliterated. By the time the water had settled and Venthrax came to a stop, he was looming menacingly over what was left of the island... and there was Tuera, standing obstinately on the same patch of stone, surrounded by a crackling, smoking dome of energy, piles and piles of salt, and billowing clouds of superheated steam.

" _ **SO...**_ " Venthrax bellowed from far too many mouths and too many voices to go along with them; ghostly afterimages vibrated away from the monstrous behemoth with every syllable. " _ **YOU'RE STILL ALIVE...**_ "

"Of course I am," Tuera shot back, standing her ground – despite the ground itself beneath her feet trying as hard as it could to rip itself apart. "Survival is what I'm best at."

" _ **WE SHALL TEST THAT SENTIMENT,**_ " he bellowed.

Tuera barely let him finish before unleashing a volley of energy straight at the amorphous mass that (she guessed, at least) was his face. Spears of fire and lightning cut through the air and exploded against the flesh, sending blood and gore everywhere... but not for long. As soon as the fel-flames dissipated, the exploded meat and offal still hanging in the air reversed direction, and the damage was repaired in seconds.

Venthrax let out a noise from his thousands of mouths that was almost entirely not unlike a sigh. The landscape all around Tuera started to stretch and squish as the fabric of reality was bent out of shape to accommodate his multi-dimensional bulk; almost before she knew it, it was as if reality itself – framed by a mass of meaty tentacles – was closing in and threatening to crush her.

There was a flash of light as the tentacles made contact with the barrier of energy all around her. Tuera held her hands out above her head, pouring energy into the spell to keep it active. Every part of her was shaking from the strain, and a trickle of blood started to leak out of her nose. The more she tried to resist, the more spider web-like cracks appeared in the transparent crackling energy shield.

Right before the barrier broke, she snapped her fingers, and a disk appeared below her feet. She fell through the portal, and emerged somewhere far above Venthrax, just as the host of fleshy tentacles collapsed inward and destroyed what was left of the island. Whips of orange energy coiled around her fingers, and she swung her arm around, sending them screaming at the pulsating mountain of organic madness.

It looked like she was trying to tie up his limbs in the energy whips, since all five of them made a beeline for the biggest of his tentacles... but it didn't seem to work. Venthrax barely moved, and the burning threads of energy were batted aside before shattering completely.

" _ **THAT WON'T WO-**_ " Venthrax began, just as Tuera let loose a concentrated blast of energy and magical fire. He seemed to be momentarily staggered... until everything on his body shifted, the air all around him seemed to fracture and reflect in on itself in a kaleidoscopic pattern, and a massive toothy maw appeared. The energy poured straight into his gullet, sucking it in and consuming the blast like a drain dealing with water.

 **WHAM!**

Tuera was knocked out of the sky by one of the tentacles, and she was sent careening down into the violent seas all around them. She barely had time to register being completely submerged before the waves all around her parted. She was unceremoniously dumped face-first onto the newly exposed sea floor, as walls of water a hundred feet high surrounded her. By the time she got to her feet, Venthrax was filling her view, consuming everything around her with teeth, tentacles, and flesh; all the while, holes of unreality winked in and out of existence.

Tuera shook her head, trying to ignore the pain from her many wounds as her blood and salt water mixed together. As powerful as she was, he was orders of magnitude stronger than her and getting more so with every second; even as she stood there, he was consuming the landscape around them. She would only get weaker if the fight dragged on any further... What was taking so long?

" _ **THIS IS POINTLESS,**_ " Venthrax bellowed. " _ **I AM BEYOND YOU IN EVERY WAY.**_ " The mountain of madness was slowly advancing on Tuera, completely un-phased by the spells she was chucking his way. She was hitting him with everything from fireballs to corruption seeds to energy beams to Life Drain siphons and every possible spell in between that she could think of – flashy or otherwise. But nothing seemed to slow him down. " _ **YOU ARE LITTLE MORE THAN A SAVAGE, THROWING ROCKS. YOU CANNOT THROW ONE BIG ENOUGH...**_ "

Tuera halted in her offensive, and looked to the sky. She could barely see what she was looking for beyond the distortions in space and time... but a single glint was all she needed.

And that was when she knew she had him.

Tuera grinned broadly at Venthrax and snapped her fingers. A shadowy portal opened up behind her, and she fell backwards into it right before her illusions and power restraints reasserted themselves. The portal swallowed her up completely... and then collapsed in on itself, closing behind her and disappearing with a pop.

Venthrax paused, caught off guard by this new development. He was momentarily bewildered: he could no longer sense her power. Wherever she had gone, she was no longer on this planet – and that confused him.

But before he could be confused any further, a beam of bright pink light fell from the sky and impacted with Venthrax, completely enveloping his immense bulk – as well as everything else for several miles in every direction around him. Venthrax was bewildered: this energy was... _different_ , somehow. He couldn't _absorb_ it. It was _wrong_! Then, when he tried to shift his immense bulk out of the way, he became angry: whatever this was, it was _physically_ anchoring him in place.

And then, when he could feel his projected extensions that existed in the other dimensions all around him start to fold in on themselves... he became _concerned._ He roared and bellowed and thrashed and tried everything he could think of to extricate himself from this spot, but it was no use. The harder he resisted, the more he was held in place. It was like he was a 4-dimensional hypercube, forced to collapse and exist in only three dimensions.

* * *

Sheason sat at the controls of his starship, calmly watching the lightshow envelop the planet below. According to the sensors, the bright pink anti-magic energy beams produced by the network of satellites were acting as a suitable dimensional anchor, focused squarely on Venthrax. He wasn't going anywhere.

"Well, credit where credit is due," he mused to himself. "She managed to distract him for _juuuust_ long enough. He never even saw it coming."

Sheason grabbed the mug of coffee from the cup holder next to him, and turned his attention to the other side of the viewport. A relatively small moon, roughly half the diameter of the planet he was orbiting, was approaching at an incredible speed; it was going so fast, the movement of the moon was easily visible to the naked eye. The gravitational forces alone of an object that size trying to move that fast would normally have torn the space-rock apart. However, the mining tugs that had towed it out of orbit would keep it intact for _just_ long enough to reach its destination: the networked web of energy produced by the satellites.

Sheason watched, calmly sipping from his coffee, as the moon passed through the energy field. Visual echoes began to appear all around the planet as the moon disappeared from reality, but continued on its course towards Venthrax; or, rather, the last remaining parts of Venthrax that existed everywhere _except_ the material plane.

"I wonder if **this** rock is big enough..." Sheason mused aloud with a chuckle.

* * *

After a few minutes, the moon – or, more accurately, the shattered, fragmented remnants of what used to be the moon – reemerged into real space several million miles away from the far side of the planet. The hundreds of chunks of destroyed space-rock careened away and spun off harmlessly into the depths of space.

The spot on the surface where Venthrax had been moments before was completely still. There were no longer any distortions in reality visible from orbit. No signs of life of any kind. Just a large, bone-white stain that could be seen clearly from space...

* * *

The exact spot where Tuera has been standing moments earlier looked unrecognizable. There was no longer an ocean for miles in any direction... just a vast desert of calcified flesh and flash-burned salt. Great spires of charred bone, wrapped in ash and stone that had been meat just moments ago, jutted forth from the ground at all angles. Flakes of that same ash floated freely in the air, along with particles of anti-magic energy; the tiny orbs of light drifted away from the ground and up to the sky, like reverse snowflakes.

A sonic boom broke the stillness, and half a second later the desert was disrupted by a colossal explosion. At the center of the expanding cloud of ash and smoke was a vaguely cylindrical metal box: a drop pod that had just fallen from orbit. A series of explosive bolts fired alongside the edges on the front, and the hatch was blown open. As the smoke and dust finally started to clear, Tuera emerged from within.

She was still wearing the form-fitting bodysuit as before; however, she was also carrying dozens of weapons, all strewn about her person. Pieces of light-weight, ultra-dense, high tech armor plating (that she had "borrowed" from the armory on Sheason's starship) were attached at key points on her outfit, to give her an added layer of protection as well as acting as relay boosters for her personal energy shield.

She snapped her fingers, and all that appeared were a few sparks and a tiny green flame that quickly petered out. The location was still saturated in anti-magic, but it wasn't a total blackout anymore. She had to do this quick, and make sure he was dead before the anti-magic disappeared completely.

"Guess these weapons were a good call..." Tuera mused aloud to herself as she walked away from the drop pod. "Time for Phase Two."

At the far end of this vitrified basin of former flesh and bone, cracks began to appear. A boulder-sized hole flaked away – followed swiftly by a boulder-sized fist, punching through. Tuera came to a halt and watched with a wry smirk as Venthrax pulled himself free from the ashen carcass of his former body.

To call him "human," even now, would be a bit of a stretch. His body was vaguely humanoid in shape, but the proportions of his limbs were all wrong; warped and twisted into grotesque parodies of their former selves. His skin was mottled and discolored, covered in an inhuman slime from so many years serving as the heart of the beast. His armor – the same set he had been wearing when he conducted the ritual decades earlier – had long ago fused to him, and his body seemed to resemble a mixture of bone, scales, and steel melted together into a hideous mockery of what he used to be.

" **You**..." Venthrax coughed out roughly as he finally emerged, his voice thick with phlegm and hoarse from decades of screaming. "You've... ruined... **everything**!" It sounded like he was having terrible difficulty with the simple act of speaking.

"Yep," Tuera snapped back, nonchalantly walking toward her father. "But that's why you left so long ago, isn't it? Because my very **existence** ruined everything for you, didn't I?"

She shook her hands to either side of her. A shield materialized from a metal pod on her right arm; a sword unfolded itself alongside her left arm, neatly depositing itself in her palm. As soon as the last pieces of nanotech snapped into place, both the sword and shield became surrounded by a crackling power field of scintillating energy, threatening to set the air alight.

"You... were to be... my **greatest** creation..." Venthrax growled out, plunging a misshapen claw of a hand into the ash at his feet. "The... **harbinger**... of my... **apocalypse**..." With a single motion, he pulled out a massive sword of melted flesh and twisted steel from the ground. It was nearly as long as he was tall, and he towered over Tuera.

Tuera stood her ground and lifted the shield above her head; Venthrax swung his sword, and brought it crashing down upon her. Arcs of lightning burst from the impact, showering everything and everyone in the area with an explosion of sparks. The ground beneath her feet cracked... but Tuera herself did not buckle.

"I would have been no such thing!" she bellowed, shifting her weight to deflect the sword away from her with the shield and diving for the gap between his legs. "I would've been a slave! You would have made me a puppet to your will, and **NOTHING MORE!** " She rolled, slashing at his legs while she yelled, and landing on her feet some distance behind him.

Venthrax snorted, staring at her over his shoulder with eyes that burned from within.

"So... **shortsighted**..." Venthrax grunted, using all his strength to shift his massive bulk around to face her. "...you lack... **vision**..." His back cracked and popped as he finally twisted around most of the way, and brought his sword around in another wide arc; a trail of anti-magic and ash was displaced as it cut through the air. The sword slammed into the ground, sending a billowing cloud of ash and dust everywhere.

Tuera had already moved out of the way, and Venthrax wasn't fast enough to catch her.

"Did you really expect me to submit?!" Tuera bellowed, spinning the sword around in her palm. She thrust it forward, directly into the back of his knee; Venthrax howled in pain as the electrified blade cleaved straight through his leg. The ground shook as he fell, with his leg no longer able to support his immense bulk.

"I will never be a slave!" she continued, leaving the sword embedded in his leg as she clambering up his scaly back toward his head. She flicked out her hand, and another nanotech sword appeared. "Do you **hear me?!** " As she yelled, she started feverishly hacking away at his neck with the sword on one side, and the edge of the shield on the other; sparks flew as the weapons met unexpected resistance from the armor, scales, and bone. " **NEVER!** "

Tuera had finally managed to chip away at the armor, exposing a small gap. She was just about to plunge her sword into his bleeding flesh when suddenly:

" _ **ENOUGH!**_ "

A massive fist grabbed her by her entire torso, and Venthrax threw her aside. Tuera tumbled through the air like a ragdoll and crashed into one of the pillars of calcified flesh. It exploded in a billowing cloud of bone-white dust.

"You **prattle** on... **ignorant** of your true **purpose**!" Venthrax growled, getting back on his feet. The sword in his leg snapped in half, as his re-growing flesh forced it out. As he started slowly making his way to her, Tuera pulled herself free of the rubble. "You **claim** you are free... but you are **blind** to the **TRUTH!** "

Tuera shook her vision clear as she got to her feet. Even dazed as she was, she could tell that his speech was becoming less stilted with every moment. The anti-magic field was still in play, but it was getting weaker. It was only a matter of time before he regained his strength. She either needed to be quick on the draw when she was strong enough, or keep him off his feet so he didn't realize what was happening.

"I am the master of my own destiny..." Tuera said, tossing aside the shield, and reaching behind her for a pair of grenades. "Not you... not **ANYONE!** " She primed the grenades and threw them straight for his face before running out of sight. Venthrax was momentarily consumed by a pair of plasma fireballs, but strode through it, seemingly unfazed.

And yet... even as the biggest fires snuffed themselves out, several embers continued to flicker and burn within the cracks of his armor...

"Are **you** so **certain** of that?" he snarled, looking around and trying to find her. "Is that why you **follow** the **orders** of your **old** **nemesis**?"

Tuera froze behind one of the pillars, midway through activating a pair of plasma guns. The words cut her deeply; probably a lot deeper than she wanted to admit. But she had to force those thoughts out of her mind... for now. She couldn't let herself get distracted. Not now. Not with victory so close. So, she grit her teeth, gripped the guns even more tightly, and threw her voice in several directions:

"I **don't** follow his orders..." she said emphatically. "...any more than he follows **mine**." Venthrax turned his attention to one of the echoed voices, and she quickly scurried to another pillar directly behind him. "You're just the bigger threat..."

Venthrax started laughing grimly as he swung his sword in a wide arc, splintering one of the pillars. When the sword finally hit the ground, everything shook; several of the other pillars collapsed from the shockwaves.

"Is **that** why **you** are **down here** , instead of **him**? Is **that** why **you** do all his **heavy lifting**?" Venthrax boomed between chuckles, dragging the tip of his sword through the powdered bone and ash. "You can **lie** to **yourself** all you **want...** but you **cannot** lie to **me**..."

"I've no need to lie," Tuera said, appearing directly behind him, with both plasma guns aimed at his head. "Only the need to kill you."

Venthrax tried turning to the sound, but – once again – he was too slow. A torrent of superheated plasma pummeled him; the still burning embers in his armor exploded outward, widening the cracks in his armored hide and exposing the cracked and bleeding flesh beneath. He howled and snarled and thrashed under the withering fire. Large chunks of his armor exploded completely. The now-exposed flesh swiftly caught alight and was burned away.

Tuera emptied the guns and tossed them aside, advancing on Venthrax. He stood there amid a cloud of steam, smoke, and flickering flames. His whole body was shaking, and it was clear he was desperately trying to move... but several critical parts of his body were simply missing. Even his sword was broken, having shattered and melted in places.

As she got closer, she could feel the power return to her limbs. She waggled her fingers, and flames began to flicker around her hands: enough of the anti-magic had evaporated.

Venthrax stared at her with undisguised malice from his one remaining eye; the right side of his head was completely missing, and parts of it were still on fire. He burbled out one last thing, amid a torrent of black blood, leaking from his mouth and the holes in his neck.

"You will... **always**... be a **slave**... to **something**..."

Tuera surrounded herself with an intensely burning flame of magic fire and launched herself at Venthrax like a missile.

* * *

Sheason watched from the bridge of his starship as a bright flash engulfed the surface of the planet. There was a shockwave, followed by a single enormous beam of energy shooting out from the center. The wide streak of green light went on for miles, and left an immense gash in the clouds – and the landscape – as it passed.

As soon as the light on the surface died down, a nearby monitor flashed an alert at him; Sheason flicked a series of switches on a nearby console, and deactivated the "backup plan" Tuera had wanted him to use, on the off-chance she failed. The trio of orbital bombardment guns on the underside of his starship retracted back into their mountings and began to cool.

"Well, what do you know," he chuckled. "She actually pulled it off."

He finished the last of his coffee and smiled to himself.

* * *

Everything was on fire.

Tuera stood among the flames, trying to catch her breath. Her armor, equipment, and weapons – all of it except the bodysuit now completely broken – began to fall off her, piece by piece, clattering to the blackened and scorched earth at her feet. Her hands shook, and she sighed, drinking in the energy all around her.

Was it over?

Was he finally dead?

Slowly, carefully, she turned around, almost afraid to see the results. The glowing embers and blackened ground crunched loudly under her feet.

All that was left of Venthrax was a charred and malformed husk. Very little of him was recognizable; she had, quite literally, gone through him, and there was a gaping hole where his chest used to be. Not to mention, his twisted and mutated corpse looked like it was made entirely out of charcoal, sticking out of a crater that _also_ resembled burnt charcoal.

She aimed an open hand in his direction as she approached, and then swiftly closed it into a fist. The charcoal-corpse shuddered violently, and crumbled into dust. She snapped her fingers, and suddenly a bright light appeared and began to twinkle in midair, where his head used to be.

The light became more distinct as she got closer: it appeared to be a small sliver of ethereal glass, spinning on its axis, and surrounded by wisps of flame and curling smoke. She held open her hand, and the sliver floated through the air, coming to rest directly above her palm. The flame burned cold as ice; a stark contrast to the blistering heat of the flames still burning in the crater around her.

This was all that was left of him: his soul, spirit, essence, consciousness, whatever you wanted to call it... _this_ was it. All she had to do was destroy it.

And yet... she hesitated. Her hand trembled, suddenly unable to go through with it.

" _You will always be a slave to something._ "

Venthrax's last words gnawed away at her insides. She had quiet reservations about this "alliance" with Sheason from the start. Not to mention... she _had_ been the one doing all the work. During every encounter in their hunt, Sheason had been safely out of sight, sitting in his starship. Had he been using her, this whole time? Had she been made a slave to his whims, without even realizing what was going on?

And then there was the other worry: was he keeping her close, merely waiting for his chance to strike? That was certainly plausible. For a spy, he hadn't exactly been subtle about his mistrust of her...

He was on his way now, wasn't he? That's what was running through her mind as her paranoia kicked into high-gear. That must be why he still had those Demon blades: the same ones that he'd used to cut off her head at the Dark Portal, all those years ago. She'd stumbled upon them when she ransacked the armory, and he must have thought they were still hidden... Now that their common enemy was destroyed, he was going to come down **here** to try and kill her, wasn't he? _Wasn't he?_

But... there _was_ a way to fight him, wasn't there? And it was _right there_ , floating in the palm of her hand. All she had to do was **consume** the power in front of her, rather than destroy it. Yes... yes, that was the only way, wasn't it? She had to become stronger... and she had to kill _him_ , before **he** killed **her**.

It was... it was the _only way_...

Wasn't it?

"No."

The moment passed.

She pulled her hand away from the flame briefly... and then shoved it away from her with a concussive blast of force. It flew through the air and exploded, cracking into a billion, billion shards of multicolored prismatic fire. There was a loud, ear-piercing shriek of anger and terror – the last gasp of Venthrax – as a shockwave blast of air was blown out in every direction. Moments later, that same air came rushing back into the epicenter. A bright flash illuminated the area, and there was one final pop as the last pieces of his essence imploded...

And then he was gone.

"No. I am no slave... and I will not be a slave to power any longer," Tuera said quietly to herself. "You've lost for the last time, old man. I'm in control of my own destiny..."

She snapped her fingers, and a shadowy portal appeared in front of her. Slowly, she walked into the shimmering gateway, and let out a sigh of relief as she crossed the event horizon.

"Let's find out what it holds."

She disappeared through the gateway, and it snapped shut behind her.

All that was left was silence.


End file.
